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BARONESS 
VON  HUTTEN 


HAPPY  HOUSE 

The  BARONESS 
VON  HUTTEN 


HAPPY    HOUSE 


BY 
The  BARONESS  VON  HUTTEN 

AUTHOR  OF  "FAM."  "PAM  DECIDES."  "SHARROW,"  "KINGSMEAD."  ETC. 


NEW  xsar  YORK 

GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT.  1920. 
BT  GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


HUNTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


TO  MISS  LILY  BETTS 

MY  DEAR  LILY:  We  three,  one  of  us  in  a  chair,  and  two  of  us 
upside  down  on  the  grass-plot,  have  decided  that  this  book  must 
be  dedicated  to  you,  in  memory  of  how  we  did  not  work  on  it  at 
Sennen  Cove,  and  how  we  did  work  on  it  here.  So  here  it  is, 
with  our  grateful  love,  from 

Your  affectionate 

'  Richard,  and  Hetty,  and  B.  v.  H. 

PENZANCE. 


2228985 

.  /wXwArfO«-/'vJ<L/ 


HAPPY  HOUSE 


HAPPY  HOUSE 


CHAPTER  I 

MRS.  WALBRIDGE  stood  at  the  top  of  the  steps,  a  pink 
satin  slipper  in  her  hand,  looking  absently  out  into  the 
late  afternoon.  The  July  sunlight  spread  in  thick  layers 
across  the  narrow,  flagged  path  to  the  gate,  and  the 
shadows  under  the  may  tree  on  the  left  were  motionless, 
as  if  cut  out  of  lead.  The  path  was  strewn  with  what 
looked  like  machine-made  snowflakes,  and  a  long  piece 
of  white  satin  ribbon  had  caught  on  the  syringa  bush  on 
the  right  of  the  green  gate,  and  hung  like  a  streak  of 
whiter  light  across  the  leaves.  Someone  inside  the 
house  was  playing  a  fox-trot,  and  sounds  of  tired  laugh- 
ter were  in  the  air,  but  the  well-known  author,  Mrs. 
Walbridge,  did  not  hear  them.  She  was  leaning  against 
the  side  of  the  door,  recklessly  crushing  her  new  grey 
frock,  and  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  gate  in  the  unsee- 
ing stare  of  utter  fatigue.  Presently  the  music  stopped 
and  the  sudden  silence  seemed  to  rouse  her,  for,  with  a 
deep  sigh  and  a  little  shake  of  the  head  that  was  evi- 
dently characteristic,  she  turned  and  went  slowly  into 
the  house. 

A  few  minutes  later  a  brisk-looking  young  man  in  a 
new  straw  hat  came  down  the  street  and  paused  at  the 
gate,  peering  up  at  the  fanlight  to  verify  his  whereabouts. 

9 


io  HAPPY  HOUSE 


Number  eighty-eight  did  not  seem  to  satisfy  him,  but 
suddenly  his  eyes  fell  on  the  gate.  On  its  shabby  green 
were  painted  the  words,  very  faded,  almost  undecipher- 
able, "Happy  House,"  and  with  a  contented  nod  the 
young  man  opened  the  gate  and  went  quickly  up  the 
steps.  No  one  answered  his  ring,  so  he  rang  again. 
Again  the  silence  was  unbroken,  but  from  somewhere 
far  off  he  heard  the  sound  of  laughter  and  talking,  and, 
peering  forward  into  the  little  hall,  he  took  a  small  note- 
book from  his  pocket  and  wrote  a  few  words  in  it, 
whistling  softly  between  his  teeth.  He  was  a  freckled- 
faced  young  man  with  a  tip-tilted  nose,  not  in  the  least 
like  the  petals  of  a  flower,  and  with  a  look  of  cheery 
cheekiness.  After  a  moment  he  went  into  the  passage 
and  thrust  his  head  into  the  open  drawing-room  door. 
The  room  was  filled  with  flowers,  and  though  the  win- 
dows were  wide  open,  it  smelt  close,  as  if  it  had  already 
been  full  of  people.  The  walls  were  covered  with  pink 
and  white  moire  paper,  whose  shiny  surface  was  broken 
by  various  pictures.  Watts's  "Hope"  in  a  gilt  frame 
dominated  the  mantelpiece;  a  copy  of  "The  Fighting 
Temeraire"  faced  it,  and  there  were  a  good  many  photo- 
graphs elaborately  framed,  grouped,  like  little  families, 
in  clusters.  Between  the  windows  hung  an  old,  faded 
photogravure  of  "The  Soul's  Awakening,"  and  "Alone 
at  Last"  revealed  its  artless  passion  over  a  walnut  chif- 
fonier laden  with  small  pieces  of  china.  The  young  man 
in  the  straw  hat,  which  was  now  pushed  far,  back  on  his 
sweat-darkened  fair  hair,  stood  in  the  middle  of  the 
room  and  looked  round,  scratching  his  head  with  his 
pencil.  His  bright  eyes  missed  nothing,  and  although 
he  was  plainly  a  young  man  full  of  buoyant  matter-of- 
factness,  there  was  scorn,  not  unkindly,  but  decided,  in 


HAPPY  HOUSE  ii 


his  merry  but  almost  porcine  eyes  as  he  made  mental 
notes  of  his  surroundings. 

"Poor  old  girl,"  he  muttered.  "Hang  that  'bus  acci- 
dent. I  wish  I'd  been  here  in  time  for  the  party " 

Then  his  shrewd  face  softened  as  the  deeper  meaning 
of  the  room  reached  him.  It  was  ugly ;  it  was  common- 
place, but  it  was  more  of  a  home  than  many  a  room  his 
journalistic  activities  had  acquainted  him  with.  By 
a  low,  shabby,  comfortable-looking  arm-chair  that  stood 
near  the  flower-filled  grate  was  a  dark-covered  table 
on  which  stood  five  photographs,  all  in  shiny  silver  or 
leather  frames.  Mr.  Wick  stood  over  the  table  tapping 
his  teeth  softly  with  his  pencil,  and  moving  his  lips  hi 
a  way  that  produced  a  hollow  tune.  "So  that's  the  little 
lot,"  he  said  to  himself  in  a  cheerful,  confidential  voice. 
"Three  feminines  and  two  masculines,  as  the  Italians 
say.  And  very  nice  too.  Her  own  corner,  I  bet.  Yes, 
there's  her  fountain  pen."  He  took  it  up  and  made  a 
note  of  its  make  and  laid  it  carefully  down.  There  was 
a  little  fire-screen  in  the  shape  of  a  banner  of  wool  em- 
broidery on  the  table.  "That's  how  she  keeps  the  fire- 
light out  of  her  eyes  when  she's  working  in  the  winter. 

Poor  old  girl.  What  ghastly  muck  it  is,  too Good 

thing  for  her  the  public  likes  it.  Now,  then,  what  about 
that  bell?  Guess  I'll  go  and  have  another  tinkle  at  it." 
He  started  to  the  door,  when  it  was  pushed  further  open 
and  the  owner  of  the  house  came  in.  Mr.  Wick  knew 
at  the  first  glance  that  it  was  the  owner  of  the  house. 
A  fattish,  middle-aged  man  in  brand  new  shepherd's 
plaid  trousers  and  a  not  quite  so  new  braided  morning- 
coat. 

"Hallo!    I — I  beg  your  pardon — • — "  the  new-comer 


12  HAPPY  HOUSE 


began,  not  at  all  in  the  voice  of  one  who  begs  pardon. 
Mr.  Wick  waved  his  hand  kindly. 

"Oliver  Wick's  my  name,"  he  explained.  "I  come 
from  Round  the  Fire  for  an  account  of  the  wedding, 
but  I  got  mixed  up  with  a  rather  good  'bus  smash  in 
Oxford  Street,  and  that's  why  I'm  late." 

"Oh,  I  see.  Want  a  description  of  the  wedding,  do 
you?  Clothes  and  so  on?  I'm  afraid  I'm  not  much 
good  for  that,  but  if  you'll  come  into  the  garden  I'll 
get  one  of  my  daughters  to  tell  you.  Some  of  the  young 
people  are  still  there,  as  a  matter  of  fact." 

Mr.  Walbridge  had  stopped  just  short  of  being  a  tall 
man.  His  figure  had  thickened  and  spread  as  he  grew 
older  and  his  hips  were  disproportionately  broad,  which 
gave  him  a  heavy,  clumsy  look.  In  his  reddish,  rather 
swollen  face  were  traces  of  what  had  been  great  beauty, 
and  he  had  the  unpleasant  manner  of  a  man  who  con- 
sciously uses  his  charm  as  a  means  to  attain  his  own 
ends. 

"Come  into  the  dining-room  first  and  have  a  glass 
of  the  widow,"  he  suggested,  as  he  led  the  way  down  the 
narrow  passage  towards  an  open  door  at  the  back  of 
the  house. 

Mr.  Wick,  who  had  no  inhuman  prejudice  against  con- 
viviality, followed  him  into  the  dining-room  and  partook, 
as  his  quick  eyes  made  notes  of  everything  on  which 
they  rested,  of  a  glass  of  warmish,  rather  doubtful  wine. 

"I  suppose  Mrs.  Walbridge  will  give  me  five  minutes?" 
the  young  man  asked,  setting  down  his  glass  and  taking 
a  cigarette  from  the  very  shiny  silver  case  offered  him 
by  his  host.  Mr.  Walbridge  laughed,  showing  the  re- 
mains of  a  fine  set  of  teeth  artfully  reinforced  by  a 
skilled  dentist. 


HAPPY  HOUSE  13 

"Oh,  yes.  My  wife  will  quite  enjoy  being  inter- 
viewed. Women  always  like  that  kind  of  thing,  and, 
between  you  and  me  and  the  gate-post,"  he  poured  some 
champagne  into  a  tumbler  and  drank  it  before  he  went 
on,  "interviewers  don't  come  round  quite  as  they  used 
in  her  younger  days." 

Mr.  Wick  despised  the  novels  of  the  poor  lady  he 
had  come  to  interview,  but  he  was  a  youth  not  without 
chivalry,  and  something  in  his  host's  manner  irritated 
him. 

"She  has  a  very  good  book  public,  anyhow,  has  Violet 
Walbridge.  You  mustn't  mind  me  calling  her  that. 
I  shouldn't  call  Browning  Mr.  Browning,  you  know,  or 
Victoria  Cross  Miss  Cross." 

Walbridge  nodded.  "Oh,  yes,  they're  pretty  stories, 
pretty  stories,  though  I  like  stronger  stuff  myself.  Just 
re-reading  T/Assommoir'  again.  Met  Zola  once  when 
I  was  living  in  Paris.  Always  wondered  how  he  smashed 
his  nose.  Well,  if  you're  ready,  let's  come  down  into 
the  garden  where  the  ladies  are." 

The  garden  of  Happy  House  was  a  long  narrow  strip 
almost  entirely  covered  by  a  grass  tennis  court,  and 
bounded  by  a  narrow,  crowded,  neglected  herbaceous 
border.  As  he  stood  at  the  top  of  the  steep  flight  of 
steps  leading  down  to  where  the  group  of  young  people 
were  sprawled  about  in  dilapidated  old  deck-chairs  or 
on  the  grass,  Mr.  Wick's  quick  eyes  saw  the  herbaceous 
border,  and,  what  is  more,  they  understood  it.  It  was 
a  meagre,  squeezed,  depressed  looking  attempt,  and  the 
young  man  from  Brondesbury  knew  instinctively  that, 
whereas  the  tennis  court  was  loved  by  the  young  people 
of  the  family,  the  wild  and  pathetic  flowers  belonged  to 
the  old  lady  he  had  come  to  interview.  Somehow  he 


14  HAPPY  HOUSE 


seemed  to  know,  as  he  told  his  mother  later,  quite  a  lot 
about  Violet  Walbridge,  just  through  looking  at  her 
border. 

The  sun  was  setting  now,  and  a  little  wind  had  come 
up,  stirring  the  leaves  on  the  old  elm  under  whose  shade, 
erratic  and  scant,  the  little  group  were  seated.  Three 
or  four  young  men  were  there,  splendid,  if  rather  warm, 
in  their  wedding  garments,  and  several  young  women 
and  girls,  the  pre#ty  pale  colours  of  their 'fine  feathers 
harmonising  charmingly  with  the  evening.  At  the  far 
end  of  the  garden  a  lady  was  walking,  with  a  blue  silk 
sunshade  over  her  shoulder.  As  the  two  men  came  down 
the  steps  Mr.  Walbridge  pointed  to  her. 

"There's  my  wife,"  he  said.  "Shall  I  come  and  intro- 
duce you?" 

"No,  thank  you.  No,  no,  I'll  go  by  myself,"  the 
young  man  answered  hastily,  and  as  he  went  down 
across  the  lawn  he  heard  a  girl's  voice  saying  laughingly : 
"Reporter  to  interview  Mrs.  Jellaby."  The  others 
laughed,  not  unkindly,  but  their  laughter  lent  to  Mr. 
Wick's  approach  to  Mrs,  Walbridge  a  deference  it  might 
otherwise  not  have  had.  She  had  not  heard  him  coming, 
and  was  standing  with  her  back  to  him,  her  head  and 
shoulders  hidden  by  the  delphinium-blue  sunshade,  and 
when  she  turned,  starting  nervously  at  the  sound  of  his 
voice,  he  realised  with  painful  acuteness  that  delphinium- 
blue  is  not  the  colour  to  be  worn  by  daylight  by  old 
ladies.  Her  thin,  worn  face,  in  which  the  bones  showed 
more  than  in  any  face  he  had  ever  seen,  was  flooded 
with  the  blue  colour  that  seemed  to  fill  all  the  hollows 
and  lines  with  indigo,  and  her  large  sunken  eyes,  on 
which  the  upper  eyelids  fitted  too  closely,  must  have 
been,  the  young  man  noticed,  beautiful  eyes  long  ago. 


HAPPY  HOUSE  15 


They  were  of  that  most  rare  eye-colour,  a  really  dark 
violet,  and  the  eyebrows  on  the  very  edge  of  the  clearly 
defined  frontal  bone  were  slightly  arched  and  well 
marked  over  the  temples.  When  he  had  told  her  who 
he  was  and  his  errand,  she  flushed  with  pleasure  and 
held  out  her  hand  to  him,  and  he,  whose  profession  is 
probably  second  only  to  that  of  dentistry  in  its  unpopu- 
larity, was  touched  by  her  simple  pleasure. 

"My  Chief  thought  the  public  would  be  interested  in 
the  wedding.  He  tells  me  this  daughter — the  bride, 
I  mean — was  the  original  of — of — one  of  your  chief 
heroines." 

Violet  Walbridge  led  the  way  to  an  old,  faded  green 
garden  seat,  on  which  they  sat  down. 

"Yes,  she's  the  original  of  'Rose  Parmenter,'  "  she 
helped  him  out  gently,  without  offence  at  his  having 
forgotten  the  name.  "I  wish  you  had  seen  her.  But 
you  can  say  that  she  was  looking  beautiful,  because  she 
was " 

Mr.  Wick  whipped  out  his  notebook  and  his  beautifully 
sharpened  pencil,  contrived  a  little  table  of  his  knees, 
and  looked  up  at  her. 

"  'Rose  Parmenter' — oh,  yes.  That's  one  of  your 
best-known  books,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes,  that  and  'Starlight  and  Moonlight.'  They  sold 
best,  though  'One  Maid's  Word'  has  done  very  well. 
That,"  she  added  slowly,  "has  been  done  into  Swedish, 
as  well  as  French  and  German.  'Queenie's  Promise'  has 
been  done  into  six  languages." 

Her  voice  was  very  low,  and  peculiarly  toneless,  but 
he  noticed  a  little  flush  of  pleasure  in  her  thin  cheeks — 
a  flush  that  induced  him,  quite  unexpectedly  to  himself, 
to  burst  out  with  the  information  that  a  friend  of  his 


16  HAPPY  HOUSE 


sister — Jenny  her  name  was — just  revelled  in  his  com- 
panion's works.  "Give  me  a  box  o'  chocs,"  Kitty  will 
say,  "and  one  of  Violet  Walbridge's  books,  and  I 
wouldn't  change  places  with  Queen  Mary." 

Without  being  urged,  Mrs.  Walbridge  gave  the  young 
man  details  he  wanted — that  her  daughter's  name  was 
Hermione  Rosalind;  that  she  was  the  second  daughter 
and  the  third  child,  and  that  she  had  married  a  man 
named  Gaskell-Walker — William  Gaskell-Walker. 

"He  belongs  to  a  Lancashire  family,  and  they've  gone 
to  the  Lakes  for  their  honeymoon."  The  author  waved 
her  thin  hand  towards  the  group  of  young  people  at  the 
other  end  of  the  lawn.  "There's  the  rest  of  my  flock," 
she  said,  her  voice  warming  a  little.  "The  tall  man  who's 
looking  at  his  watch  is  my  other  son-in-law,  Dr.  Twiss 
of  Queen  Anne  Street,  Cavendish  Square.  He  married 
my  eldest  daughter,  Maud,  four  years  ago.  Their  little 
boy  was  page  to-day.  He's  upstairs  asleep  now." 

As  she  spoke  one  of  the  girls  in  the  group  left  the 
others  and  came  towards  her  and  Wick. 

"This  is  your  daughter,  too?"  the  young  man  asked, 
a  little  throb  of  pleasure  in  his  voice. 

"Yes,  this,"  Mrs.  Walbridge  answered,  taking  tfie 
girl's  hand,  "is  my  baby,  Griselda.  Grisel,  dear,  this  is 
Mr.— Mr. " 

"Wick,"  said  the  young  man.     "Oliver  Wick." 

"You've  come  to  interview  Mum?"  Miss  Walbridge 
asked,  a  little  good-natured  raillery  in  her  voice. 

The  young  man  bowed.  "Yes.  I  represent  Round 
the  Fire,  and  my  Chief  thought  that  the  public  would 

be  interested  in  an  account  of  the  wedding "  His 

eyes  were  glued  to  the  young  girl's  face.  She  was  very 
small,  and,  he  thought  to  himself,  the  blackest  white 


HAPPY  HOUSE  17 


girl  he  had  ever  seen ;  so  dark  that  if  he  had  not  known 
who  she  was  he  might  have  wondered  whether  she  were 
not  the  whitest  black  girl — her  hair  was  coal-black  and 
her  long  eyes  like  inkwells,  and  her  skin,  smooth  as 
vellum,  without  a  touch  of  colour,  was  a  rich  golden 
brown.  She  was  charmingly  dressed  in  canary-coloured 
chiffon,  and  round  her  neck  she  wore  a  little  necklet 
of  twisted  strands  of  seed  pearls,  from  which  hung  a 
large,  beautifully  cut  pearl-shaped  topaz. 

"I  came  to  tell  you,  Mum,"  she  went  on,  glancing 
over  her  shoulder  at  one  of  the  upper  windows,  "that 
Hilary's  awake  and  bawling  his  head  off,  and  Maud 
wants  you  to  go  up  to  him." 

Mrs.  Walbridge  rose  and  Wick  noticed,  although 
he  could  not  have  explained  it,  how  very  different  were 
her  grey  silk  draperies  from  the  yellow  ones  of  her 
daughter.  She  had,  moreover,  sat  down  carelessly,  and 
the  back  of  her  frock  was  crushed  and  twisted. 

"It's  my  little  grandson,"  she  explained.  "He's  always 
frightened  when  he  wakes  up.  I'll  go  to  him.  Perhaps 
you'd  like  my  daughter  to  show  you  the  wedding  pres- 
ents, Mr.  Wick." 

Oliver  Wick  was  very  young,  and  he  was  an  ugly 
youth  as  well,  but  something  about  him  held  the  girl's 
attention,  in  spite  of  his  being  only  a  reporter.  This 
something,  though  she  did  not  know  it,  was  power,  so  it 
was  perfectly  natural  that  the  little,  spoilt  beauty  should 
lead  him  into  the  house  to  the  room  upstairs  where  the 
presents  were  set  forth.  His  flowery  article  in  the  next 
number  of  Round  the  Fire  expressed  great  appreciation 
of  the  gifts,  but  there  was  no  detailed  account  of  them, 
and  that  was  because,  although  he  looked  at  them  and 
seemed  to  see  what  he  was  looking  at,  he  really  saw 


i8  HAPPY  HOUSE 


nothing   but    Miss   Walbridge's    enchanting   little    face. 

"Do  you  ever  read  any  of  Mum's  novels?"  the  girl 
asked  him  at  last,  as  they  stood  by  the  window,  looking 
down  over  the  little  garden  into  the  quiet,  tree-bordered 
road. 

The  young  man  hesitated,  and  she  burst  out  laughing, 
pointing  a  finger  of  scorn  at  him. 

"You've  not?"  she  cried.  "Own  up.  You  needn't 
mind.  I'm  sure  I  don't  blame  you;  they're  awful  rub- 
bish— poor  old  Mum!  I  often  wonder  who  it  is  does 
read  them." 

As  she  finished  speaking,  the  door  into  the  back  room 
opened,  and  Mrs.  Walbridge  came  out,  carrying  the 
little  boy  who  had  been  crying.  His  long,  fat  legs,  end- 
ing in  shiny  patent  leather  slippers,  hung  limply  down, 
and  his  towsled  fair  head  leant  on  her  shoulder.  He 
was  dressed  in  cavalier  costume  of  velvet  and  satin,  and 
his  fat,  stupid  face  was  blotted  and  blurred  with  tears. 
He  looked  so  very  large  and  heavy,  and  Mrs.  Walbridge 
looked  so  small  and  old  and  tired  that  the  young  man 
went  towards  with  his  arms  held  out. 

"Let  me  carry  him  down  for  you,"  he  said.  "He's 
too  heavy " 

Griselda  laughed.  "My  mother  won't  let  you,"  she 
said  gaily.  "She  always  carries  him  about.  She's  much 
stronger  than  she  looks." 

Mrs.  Walbridge  didn't  speak,  but,  with  a  little  smile, 
went  out  of  the  room  and  slowly  downstairs.  Her 
daughter  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"Mum's  not  only  superannuated  as  to  novels,"  she 
announced,  smoothing  her  hair  in  front  of  a  glass; 
"she's  the  old-fashioned  mother  and  grandmother.  She 
won't  let  us  do  a  thing." 


HAPPY  HOUSE  19 


Her  bright  beauty  had  already  cast  a  small  spell  on 
the  young  man,  but  nevertheless  he  answered  her  in  a 
flash: 

"Do  you  ever  try  ?"   • 

She  stared  for  a  moment.  In  spite  of  his  journalistic 
manner  and  what  is  really  best  described  as  his  cheek, 
Oliver  Wick  was  a  gentleman,  and  the  girl  had  instinct- 
ively accepted  him  as  such.  But  at  the  abrupt,  frank 
censure  in  his  voice  she  drew  herself  up  and  assumed 
a  new  manner. 

"Now  that  you've  seen  the  presents,"  she  said,  in 
what  he  knew  she  thought  to  be  a  haughty  tone,  "I  think 
I  must  get  back  to  my  friends." 

He  grinned.  "Righto!  Sorry  to  have  detained  you. 
But  I  haven't  quite  finished  my  talk  with  Mrs.  Walbridge. 
I'm  sure  she  won't  mind  giving  me  a  few  tips  about  her 
next  book.  Our  people  love  that  kind  of  thing — eat  it." 

He  cast  his  eye  about  the  pleasant  sunny  room,  and 
then,  as  he  reached  the  door,  stopped. 

"I  suppose  this  is  your  room?"  he  asked,  with  bland 
disregard  of  her  manner. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Well — different  kinds  of  pictures,  you  know;  brown 
wallpaper,  and  that's  a  good  Kakemono.  Hanabosa 
Iccho,  isn't  it?" 

Miss  Walbridge's  face  expressed  surprise  too  acute  to 
be  altogether  courteous.  i 

"I — I  don't  know,"  she  said.  "I  know  it's  a  very 
good  one.  Mother  bought  it  for  Paul — that's  my  brother 
— he's  very  fond  of  such  things — for  his  birthday  and 
at  Christmas — his  room  is  being  painted,  so  some  of  his 
things  are  in  here." 


20  HAPPY  HOUSE 


The  young  man  looked  admiringly  at  the  grey  and 
white  study  of  monkeys  and  leaves. 

"I've  got  an  uncle  who  collects  them,"  he  said,  "and 
that's  a  jolly  good  one.  I  suppose  that  Mrs.  Walbridge 
goes  in  for  Japanese  art  too?" 

"Poor  mother!"  The  girl  laughed.  "She  doesn't 
know  a  Kakemono  from  a  broomstick.  Paul  found  that 
one  at  some  sale  and  asked  her  to  give  it  to  him." 

They  went  slowly  down  the  stairs,  the  girl's  pretty 
white  hand  sliding  lightly  along  the  polished  rail  in  a 
way  that  put  all  thought  of  Japanese  art  out  of  the 
young  man's  active  mind.  He  was  going  to  be  a  great 
success,  for  he  had  the  conquering  power  of  concentrat- 
ing not  only  his  thoughts  but  his  feelings  on  one  thing 
at  a  time;  and  for  the  moment  the  only  thing  in  the 
world  was  Griselda  Walbridge's  left  hand. 


CHAPTER  II 

HAPPY  HOUSE  was  a  big  old  house  with  rooms  on  both 
sides  of  the  door,  and  a  good  many  bedrooms,  but  it 
was  old-fashioned  in  the  wrong  way,  like  a  man's  straw 
hat,  say,  of  the  early  seventies.  It  was  inconvenient 
without  being  picturesque.  There  was  only  one  bath- 
room, and  the  passages  were  narrow.  Most  of  the 
children  had  been  born  there,  indeed  all  of  them  except 
Paul,  for  the  prudent  Mrs.  Walbridge  had  bought  it 
out  of  the  proceeds  of  her  first  book,  "Queenie's  Promise" , 
— a  book  that  is  even  now  dear  to  thousands  of  romantic 
hearts  in  obscure  homes.  Paul  had  been  born  in  the 
little  house  at  Tooting  Bee,  for  there  it  was  that  the 
Great  Success  had  been  written.  In  those  days  might 
have  been  seen  walking  under  the  fine  trees  of  the  com- 
mon, a  little  dowdy  figure  with  a  bustle  and  flowing 
unhygienic  draperies,  that  was  the  newly  married  Mrs. 
Ferdinand  Walbridge,  in  the  throes  of  literary  invention. 
But  just  before  the  birth  of  Maud  Evelyn  the  removal 
had  been  made;  the  hastily  gathered,  inexpensive  house- 
hold gods  had  been  carried  by  the  faithful  Carter  Pater- 
son  to  Walpole  Road  and  set  up  in  their  over-large, 
rather  dwarfing  shrine.  Those  were  the  days  of  limitless 
ambition  and  mad,  rosy  dreams,  when  Ferdinand  was 
still  regarded  by  his  young  wife  much  in  the  way  that 
Antony  Trollope's  heroines  worshipped  their  husbands 
a  short  time  before.  The  romantic  light  of  the  runaway 
match  still  hung  round  him  and  his  extraordinary  good 
looks  filled  her  with  unweakened  pride. 

21 


22  HAPPY  HOUSE 


They  hung  up  Mr.  Watts's  "Hope,"  the  beautiful  and 
touching  "Soul's  Awakening"  (which,  indeed,  bore  a 
certain  resemblance  to  Walbridge  at  that  time),  she 
arranged  her  little  odds  and  ends  of  china,  and  her  few 
books  that  her  father  had  sent  her  after  the  half-hearted 
reconciliation  following  Paul's  birth,  and  one  of  the 
first  things  they  bought  was  a  gilt  clock,  representing 
two  little  cupids  on  a  see-saw.  Mrs.  Walbridge's  taste 
was  bad,  but  it  was  no  worse  than  the  taste  of  the  greater 
part  of  her  contemporaries  of  her  own  class,  for  she 
belonged  body  and  soul  to  the  Philistines.  She  hadn't 
even  an  artistic  uncle  clinging  to  the  uttermost  skirts  of 
the  pre-Raphaelites  to  lighten  her  darkness,  and,  behold, 
when  she  had  made  it,  her  little  kingdom  looked  good  to 
her.  She  settled  down  light-heartedly  and  without  mis- 
givings, to  her  quadruple  role  of  wife,  mother,  house- 
keeper and  writer.  She  had  no  doubt,  the  delicate  little 
creature  of  twenty,  but  that  she  could  "manage"  and 
she  had  been  managing  ever  since.  She  managed  to 
write  those  flowery  sentimental  books  of  hers  in  a  room 
full  of  crawling,  experimental,  loud-voiced  babies;  she 
managed  to  break  in  a  series  of  savage  handmaidens, 
who  married  as  soon  as  she  had  taught  them  how  to  do 
their  work;  she  managed  to  make  flowers  grow  in  the 
shabby,  weed-grown  garden;  she  managed  to  mend 
stair-carpets,  to  stick  up  fresh  wallpapers,  to  teach  her 
children  their  prayers  and  how  to  read  and  write;  she 
managed  to  cook  the  dinner  during  the  many  servantless 
periods.  The  fate  of  her  high-born  hero  and  heroine 
tearing  at  her  tender  heart,  while  that  fabulous  being, 
the  printer's  devil,  waited,  in  a  metaphorical  sense,  on 
her  doorstep.  But  most  of  all,  she  managed  to  put  up 
with  Ferdinand.  She  had  loved  him  strongly  and  truly, 


HAPPY  HOUSE  23 


but  she  was  a  clear-sighted  little  woman,  and  she  could 
not  be  fooled  twice  in  the  same  way,  which,  from  some 
points  of  view,  is  a  misfortune  in  a  wife.  So  gradually 
she  found  him  out,  and  with  every  bit  of  him  that 
crumbled  away,  something  of  herself  crumbled  too. 
Nobody  knew  very  much  about  those  years,  for  she  was 
one  of  those  rare  women  who  have  no  confidante,  and 
she  was  too  busy  for  much  active  mourning.  Ferdinand 
was  an  expensive  luxury.  She  worked  every  day  and 
all  day,  believed  in  her  stories  with  a  pathetic  persistence, 
cherishing  all  her  press  notices — she  pasted  them  in  a 
large  book,  and  each  one  was  carefully  dated.  She  had 
a  large  public,  and  made  a  fairly  large,  fairly  regular 
income,  but  there  never  was  enough  money,  because 
Walbridge  not  only  speculated  and  gambled  in  every 
possible  way,  but  also  required  a  great  deal  for  his  own 
personal  comforts  and  luxuries.  For  years  it  was  the 
joy  of  the  little  woman's  heart  to  dress  him  at  one  of 
the  classic  tailors  in  Savile  Row ;  his  shirts  and  ties  came 
from  a  Jermyn  Street  shop,  his  boots  from  St.  James's 
Street,  and  his  gloves  (he  had  very  beautiful  hands) 
were  made  specially  for  him  in  the  Rue  de  Rivoli.  For 
many  years  Ferdinand  Walbridge  (or  Ferdie,  as  he  was 
called  by  a  large  but  always  changing  circle  of  admiring 
friends)  was  one  of  the  most  carefully  dressed  men  in 
town.  He  had  an  office  somewhere  in  the  city,  but  his 
various  attempts  at  business  always  failed  sooner  or 
later,  and  then  after  each  failure  he  would  settle  down 
gently  and  not  ungratefully  to  a  long  period  of  what  he 
called  rest. 

When  the  three  elder  children  were  eight,  six  and 
three,  a  very  bad  time  had  come  to  "Happy  House." 
Little  had  been  known  about  it  except  for  the  main  fact 


24  HAPPY  HOUSE 


that  Mr.  Walbridge  was  made  a  bankrupt.  But  Caroline 
Breeze,  the  only  woman  who  was  anything  like  an  inti- 
mate friend  of  the  household,  knew  that  there  was,  over 
and  above  this  dreadful  business,  a  worse  trouble. 

Caroline  Breeze  was  one  of  those  women  who  are  not 
unaffectionately  called  "a  perfect  fool"  by  their  friends, 
but  she  was  a  close-mouthed,  loyal  soul,  and  had  never 
talked  about  it  to  anyone.  But  years  afterwards,  when 
the  time  had  come  for  her  to  speak,  she  spoke,  out  of 
her  silent  observation,  to  great  purpose.  For  a  long 
time  after  his  bankruptcy  Ferdie  Walbridge  walked 
about  like  a  moulting  bird ;  his  jauntiness  seemed  to  have 
left  him,  and  without  it  he  wilted  and  became  as  nothing. 
During  this  three  years  Mrs.  Walbridge  for  the  first 
time  did  her  writing  in  the  small  room  in  the  attic — the 
small  room  with  the  sloping  roof  and  the  little  view  of 
the  tree-tops  and  sky  of  which  she  grew  so  fond,  and 
which,  empty  and  desolate  though  it  was,  had  gradually 
grown  to  be  called  the  study ;  and  that  was  the  time  when 
Caroline  Breeze  was  of  such  great  use  to  her.  For 
Caroline  used  to  come  every  day  and  take  the  children, 
as  she  expressed  it,  off  their  mother's  hands. 

In  '94  Mrs.  Walbridge  produced  "Touchstones,"  in 
'95  "Under  the  Elms"  and  in  '96  "Starlight  and  Moon- 
light." It  was  in  '98  that  there  appeared  in  the  papers 
a  small  notice  to  the  effect  that  Mr.  Ferdinand  Walbridge 
was  discharged  from  his  bankruptcy,  having  paid  his 
creditors  twenty  shillings  in  the  pound. 

Naturally,  after  this  rehabilitation,  Mr.  Walbridge 
became  once  more  his  charming  and  fascinating  self, 
and  was  the  object  of  many  congratulations  from  the 
entirely  new  group  of  friends  that  he  had  gathered  round 
him  since  his  misfortune.  l 


HAPPY  HOUSE  25 


"Most  chaps  would  have  been  satisfied  to  pay  fifteen 
shillings  in  the  pound,"  more  than  one  of  these  gentle- 
men declared  to  him,  and  Ferdie  Walbridge,  as  he  waved 
his  hand  and  expressed  his  failure  to  comprehend  such 
an  attitude,  really  almost  forgot  that  it  was  his  wife 
and  not  himself  who  had  provided  the >  money  that  had 
washed  his  honour  clean. 

Caroline  Breeze,  faithful  and  best  of  friends,  lived 
up  three  pairs  of  stairs  in  the  Harrow  Road,  and  one 
of  her  few  pleasures  was  the  keeping  of  an  accurate 
and  minute  record  of  her  tiaily  doings.  Perhaps  some 
selections  from  the  diary  will  help  to  bring  us  up  to 
date  in  the  story  of  "Happy  House." 

October,  1894 — Tuesday. — Have  been  with  poor  Vio- 
let. Mr.  Walbridge  has  been  most  unfortunate,  and 
someone  has  made  him  a  bankrupt.  It  is  a  dreadful 
blow  to  Violet,  and  poor  little  Hermy  only  six  weeks 
old.  Brought  Maud  home  for  the  night  with  me.  She's 
cutting  a  big  tooth.  Gave  her  black  currant  jam  for  tea. 
Do  hope  the  seeds  won't  disagree  with  her.  .  .  . 

Wednesday. — Not  much  sleep  with  poor  little  Maud. 
Took  her  round  and  got  Hermy  in  the  pram,  and  did 
the  shopping.  Saw  Mr.  Walbridge  for  a  moment.  He 
looks  dreadfully  ill,  poor  man.  Told  me  he  nearly  shot, 
himself  last  night.  I  told  him  he  must  bear  up  for 
Violet's  sake.  .  .  . 

A  week  later. — Went  to  "Happy  House"  and  took 
care  of  the  children  while  Violet  was  at  the  solicitors. 
She  looks  frightfully  ill  and  changed,  somehow.  I  don't 
quite  understand  what  it  is  all  about.  Several  people 
I  know  have  gone  bankrupt,  and  none  of  their  wives 
seem  as  upset  as  Violet.  .  .  . 

November  $th. — Spent  the  day  at  "Happy  House" 


26  HAPPY  HOUSE 


looking  after  the  children.  Violet  had  to  go  to  the  Law 
Courts  with  Air.  Walbridge.  He  looked  so  desperate 
this  morning  that  I  crept  in  and  hid  his  razors.  He 
dined  at  the  King's  Arms  with  some  of  his  friends,  and 
Violet  and  I  had  high  tea  together.  She  looks  dread- 
fully ill,  and  the  doctor  says  she  must  wean  poor  little 
Hermy.  She  said  very  little,  but  I'm  afraid  she  blames 
poor  Mr.  Walbridge.  I  begged  her  to  be  gentle  with 
him,  and  she  promised  she  would,  but  she  looked  so 
oddly  at  me  that  I  wished  I  hadn't  said  it. 

November  2Oth. — Violet  has  moved  into  the  top  room 
next  the  nursery  to  be  nearer  the  children.  I  must  say 
I  think  this  is  wrong  of  her.  She  ought  to  consider  her 
husband.  He  looks  a  little  better,  but  my  heart  aches 
for  him. 

February,  1895. — Violet's  new  book  doing  very  well. 
Third  edition  out  yesterday.  She's  getting  on  well  with 
the  one  for  the  autumn.  Such  a  pretty  title — "Under 
the  Elms."  It's  about  a  foundling,  which  I  think  is 
always  so  sweet.  She's  very  busy  making  over  the 
children's  clothes.  Ferdie  (he  says  it  is  ridiculous  that 
such  an  intimate  friend  as  I  am  should  go  on  calling 
him  Mr.  Walbridge)  has  gone  to  Torquay  for  a  few 
weeks  as  he's  very  run  down.  Mem. — I  lent  him  ten 
pounds,  as  dear  Violet  really  doesn't  seem  quite  to  under- 
stand that  a  gentleman  needs  a  little  extra  money  when 
he's  away.  He  was  sweet  about  her.  Told  me  how  very 
good  she  was,  and  said  that  her  not  understanding  about 
the  pocket  money  is  not  her  fault,  as,  of  course,  she  is 
not  quite  so  well  born  as  he.  He  is  very  well  connected 
indeed,  though  he  doesn't  care  to  have  much  to  do  with 
his  relations.  He's  to  pay  me  back  when  his  two  new 


HAPPY  HOUSE  27 


pastels  are  sold.  They  are  at  Jackson's  in  Oxford  Street, 
and  look  lovely  in  the  window.  .  .  . 

November,  1895. — Violet's  new  book  out  to-day — 
"Under  the  Elms" — a  sweet  story.  She  gave  me  a  copy 
with  my  name  in  it,  and  I  sat  up  till  nearly  two,  with 
cocoa,  reading  it.  Very  touching,  and  made  me  cry,  but 
has  a  happy  ending.  I  wish  I  had  such  a  gift. 

January  i^th,  1896. — Just  had  a  long  talk  with  poor 
Ferdie.  He  is  really  very  unlucky.  Had  his  pocket 
picked  on  his  way  home  from  the  city  yesterday  with 
£86  155.  4d.  in  his  purse.  Does  not  wish  to  tell  poor 
Violet.  It  would  distress  her  so.  He  had  bought  some 
shares  in  some  kind  of  mineral — I  forget  the  name — 
and  they  had  gone  up,  and  he  had  been  planning  to 
buy  her  a  new  coat  and  skirt,  and  a  hat,  and  lovely 
presents  for  all  the  children.  He's  such  a  kind  man. 
He  was  even  going  to  buy  six  pairs  of  gloves  for  me. 
The  disappointment  is  almost  more  than  he  can  bear. 
Sometimes  I  think  Violet  is  rather  hard  on  him.  I 
couldn't  bear  to  see  him  so  disappointed,  so  I  am  lending 
him  £50  out  of  the  Post  Office  Savings  Bank.  He's 
going  to  pay  me  six  per  cent.  It's  better  than  I  can 
get  in  any  other  safe  investment.  He's  to  pay  me  at 
midsummer.  N.B. — That  makes  £60. 

February  12th,  1896. — Paul's  birthday.  Went  to  tea 
to  "Happy  House."  Violet  made  a  beautiful  cake  with 
white  icing,  and  had  squeezed  little  pink  squiggles  all 
over  it  in  a  nice  pattern.  She  gave  him  a  fine  new  pair 
of  boots  and  a  bath  sponge.  His  daddy  gave  him  a 
drum — a  real  one — and  a  large  box  of  chocolates. 

February  i^th,  1896. — Ferdie  came  round  at  seven 
this  morning  to  ask  me  to  help  nurse  Paul.  He  was  ill 
all  night  with  nettle-rash  in  his  throat,  and  nearly 


28  HAPPY  HOUSE 


choked,  poor  little  boy.  I've  been  there  all  day.  Susan 
told  me  Ferdie's  grief  in  the  night  was  something  awful. 
It's  a  good  thing  Violet  does  not  take  things  so  to  heart. 
Odd  about  the  chocolate.  It  seems  it's  always  given  him 
nettle-rash. 

September  4th,  1896. — Darling  Hermy's  second  birth- 
day. Her  mother  made  her  a  really  lovely  coat  out  of 
her  Indian  shawl.  I  knitted  her  a  petticoat.  Dear 
Ferdie  gave  her  a  huge  doll  with  real  hair,  that  talks, 
and  a  box  of  chocolates,  which  we  took  away  from  her, 
as  Paul  cried  for  some.  Ferdie  had  quite  forgotten 
that  chocolates  poison  Paul.  He  was  very  wonderful 
this  evening  after  the  children  had  gone  to  bed.  He  had 
made  some  money  (only  a  little)  by  doing  some  work 
in  the  city,  and  he  had  bought  Violet  a  lovely  pair  of 
seed-pearl  earrings.  I  suppose  she  was  very  tired,  be- 
cause she  was  really  quite  ungracious  about  them,  and 
hurt  his  feelings  dreadfully.  There  was  also  some 
trouble  about  the  gas  man,  which  I  didn't  quite  under- 
stand. But  afterwards,  when  I  had  gone  upstairs  to 
take  a  last  look  at  the  children,  they  had  a  talk,  and  as 
I  came  downstairs  I  saw  him  kneeling  in  front  of  her 
with  his  head  in  her  lap.  He  has  such  pretty  curly 
hair,  and  when  I  came  in  he  came  to  me  and  took  my 
hand  and  said  he  didn't  mind  my  seeing  his  tears,  as  I 
was  the  same  as  a  sister,  and  asked  me  to  help  influence 
her  to  forgive  him,  and  to  begin  over  again.  It  was 
very  touching,  and  I  couldn't  help  crying  a  little.  I  was 
so  sorry  for  him.  Violet  is  really  rather  hard.  I  sug- 
gested to  her  that  after  all  many  nice  people  go  bank- 
rupt, and  that  other  women  have  far  worse  things  to 
bear,  and  she  looked  at  me  very  oddly  for  a  moment, 


HAPPY  HOUSE  29 


almost  as  if  she  despised  me,  though  it  can't  have  been 
that.  .  .  . 

September  3Of/*>  1896. — Have  been  helping  Violet 
move  her  things  back  into  the  downstairs  room.  Ferdie 
was  so  pleased.  He  brought  home  a  great  bunch  of 
white  lilac — in  September! — and  put  it  in  a  vase  by  the 
bed.  I  thought  it  was  a  lovely  little  attention. 

July  4th,  1897. — A  beautiful  little  boy  came  home  this 
morning  to  "Happy  House."  They  are  going  to  call 
him  Guy,  which  is  Ferdie's  favourite  name.  He  was 
dreadfully  disappointed  it  wasn't  a  little  girl,  so  that 
she  could  be  named  Violet  Peace.  He's  so  romantic. 
What  a  pity  there  is  no  masculine  name  meaning 
Peace.  , 


CHAPTER  III 

MR.  OLIVER  WICK'S  ideas  of  courtship  were  primitive 
and  unshakable.  On  one  or  two  clever,  ingenious 
pretexts  he  visited  "Happy  House"  twice  within  the 
month  after  his  first  visit,  in  order,  as  he  expressed  it 
to  himself,  to  look  over  Miss  Walbridge  in  the  light  of 
a  possible  wife.  That  he  was  in  love  with  her  he  recog- 
nised, to  continue  using  his  own  language,  "from  the 
drop  of  the  hat,"  "from  the  first  gun."  But  although 
he  belonged  to  the  most  romantic  race  under  the  sun, 
Mr.  Wick  was  no  fool,  and  whereas  anything  like  a 
help-meet  would  have  displeased  him  almost  to  the 
point  of  disgust,  he  had  certain  standards  to  which  any 
one  with  claims  to  be  the  future  Mrs.  Oliver  V^ick  must 
more  or  less  conform.  He  didn't  care  a  bit  about 
money — he  felt  that  money  was  his  job,  not  the  girl's — 
but  she'd  got  to  be  straight,  she'd  got  to  be  a  good 
looker,  and  she'd  got  to  be  good-tempered.  No  shrew- 
taming  for  him — at  least  not  in  his  own  domestic  circle. 

One  evening,  shortly  after  his  third  visit  to  "Happy 
House,"  the  young  man  was  standing  at  the  tallboys 
in  his  mother's  room  in  Spencer  Crescent,  Brondesbury, 
tying  a  new  tie  over  an  immaculate  dress  shirt. 

"I'm  going  to  do  the  trick  to-night,"  he  declared, 
filled  with  pleasant  confidence,  "or  bust." 

Mrs.  Wick,  who  looked  more  like  her  son's  grand- 
mother than  his  mother,  sat  in  a  low  basket  chair  by 
the  window,  stretching,  with  an  old,  thin  pair  of  olive- 

30 


HAPPY  HOUSE  31 


wood  glove  stretchers,  the  new  white  gloves  that  were 
to  put  the  final  touch  of  splendour  to  the  wooer's  appear- 
ance. 

She  was  a  pleasant-faced  old  woman,  with  a  strong 
chin  and  keen,  clear  eyes,  and  when  she  smiled  she 
showed  traces  of  past  beauty. 

"Well,  of  course,"  she  said,  snapping  the  glove- 
stretchers  at  him  thoughtfully,  "you  know  everything 
— you  always  did — and  far  be  it  from  me  to  make  any 
suggestions  to  you." 

He  turned  round,  grinning,  his  ugly  face  full  of  subtle 
likeness  to  her  handsome  one. 

"Oh,  go  on,"  he  jeered,  "you  wonderful  old  thing! 
Some  day  your  pictures  will  be  in  the  penny  papers  as 
the  mother  of  Baron  Wick  of  Brondesbury.  Of  course 
I  know  everything!  Look  at  this  tie,  for  instance.  A 
Piccadilly  tie,  built  for  dukes,  tied  in  Brondesbury  by 
Fleet  Street.  What's  his  name — D'Orsay — couldn't  do 
it  better.  But  what  were  you  going  to  say?" 

She  laughed  and  held  out  the  gloves.  "Here  you  are, 
son.  Only  this.  I  bet  you  sixpence  she  won't  look  at 
you.  She'll  turn  you  down;  refuse  you;  give  you  the 
cold  hand;  icy  mit — what  d'you  call  it?  And  then  you'll 
come  back  and  weep  on  my  shoulder." 

Mr.  Wick,  who  had  taken  the  gloves,  stood  still  for  a 
minute,  his  face  full  of  sudden  thought. 

"She  may,"  he  said,  "she  may.  I  don't  care  if  she 
does.  I  tell  you  she's  lovely,  mother.  She'd  look  like 
a  fairy  queen  if  the  idiots  who  paint  'em  realised  that 
fairies  ought  to  be  dark,  and  not  tow-coloured.  Of 
course  she'll  refuse  me  a  few  times,  but  her  father'll  be 
on  my  side." 

"Why?" 


32  HAPPY  HOUSE 


"Because  he's  a  rather  clever  old  scoundrel,  and  he'll 
know  that  I'm  a  succeeder — a  getter." 

The  old  woman  looked  thoughtful.  "I  haven't  liked 
anything  you  told  me  about  him,  Oily.  But,  after  all, 
he  has  paid  up,  and  lots  of  good  men  have  been  unfortu- 
nate in  business." 

The  young  fellow  took  up  his  dress-coat,  which  was 
new  and  richly  lined,  and  drew  it  on  with  care. 

"Oh,  I'm  not  marrying  into  this  family  because  I 
admire  my  future  father-in-law,"  he  answered.  "I 
haven't  any  little  illusions  about  him,  old  lady.  It's  his 
wife  who's  done  the  paying,  or  I'm  very  much  mistaken. 
She's  an  honest  woman — poor  thing." 

There  was  such  deep  sympathy  in  his  voice  that  his 
mother,  who  had  risen,  and  was  patting  and  smoothing 
the  new  coat  into  place  on  his  broad  shoulders,  pulled 
him  round  till  he  faced  her,  and  looked  down  at  him, 
for  she  was  taller  than  he. 

"Why  are  you  so  sorry  for  her?" 

He  hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  his  hesitation  meant 
much  to  her. 

"I  don't  know.  She  never  says  anything,  of  course. 
She  seems  happy  enough,  but  I  believe — I  believe  she's 
found  him  out " 

"God  help  her,"  Mrs.  Wick  answered. 

The  young  man  remembered  this  episode  as  he  sat 
opposite  his  hostess  at  dinner  an  hour  and  a  half  later. 
The  dining-room  had  been  re-papered  since  he  had  drunk 
that  glass  of  luke-warm  wine  in  it  the  day  of  Hermione's 
wedding,  and  his  sharp  eyes  noticed  the  absence  of 
several  ugly  things  that  had  been  there  then.  Stags 
no  longer  hooted  to  each  other  across  mountain  chasms 


HAPPY  HOUSE  33 


over  the  sideboard,  and  one  or  two  good  line  drawings 
hung  in  their  place. 

"How  do  you  like  it?"  Griselda  asked  him.  "Paul 
and  I  have  been  cheering  things  up  a  bit." 

"Splendid,"  he  replied  promptly.  "I  say,  how  beauti- 
ful your  sister  is!" 

Griselda's  rather  hard  little  face  softened  charmingly 
as  she  looked  across  the  table,  where  the  bride  was 
sitting.  Hermione  Gaskell-Walker  was  a  very  handsome 
young  woman  in  an  almost  classical  way,  and  her  short- 
sighted, clever-looking  husband,  who  sat  nearly  opposite 
her,  evidently  thought  so  too,  for  he  peered  over  the 
flowers  at  her  in  adoration  that  was  plain  and  pleasing 
to  see. 

"They've  such  a  jolly  house  in  Campden  Hill.  His 
father  was  Adrian  Gaskell-Walker,  the  landscape  painter, 
and  collected  things." 

Mr.  Wick  nodded,  but  did  not  answer,  for  he  was 
busy  making  a  series  of  those  mental  photographs, 
whose  keenness  and  durability  so  largely  contributed  to 
his  success  in  life.  He  had  an  amazing  power  of  storing 
up  records  of  incidents  that  somehow  or  other  might 
come  in  useful  to  him,  and  this  little  dinner  party,  which 
he  had  decided  to  be  a  milestone  on  his  road,  interested 
him  acutely  in  its  detail. 

By  candlelight,  in  perfect  evening  dress,  Ferdinand 
Walbridge's  slightly  dilapidated  charms  were  very  mani- 
fest. On  his  right  sat  an,,  elderly  lady  about  whom 
Mr.  Wick's  apparatus  recorded  only  one  word — pearls. 

Next  to  her  came  Paul  Walbridge,  looking  older  than 
his  twenty-nine  years — thin,  delicate,  rather  high  shoul- 
dered, with  remarkably  glossy  dark  hair  and  immense 
soft,  dove-coloured  eyes.  He  looked  far  better  bred, 


34  HAPPY  HOUSE 


the  young  man  decided,  than  he  had  any  right  to  look; 
his  hands,  in  particular,  might  have  been  modelled  by 
Velasquez. 

"Supercilious "  Wick  thought,  and  then  paused, 

not  adding  the  "ass"  that  had  come  into  his  mind,  for 
he  knew  that  Paul  Walbridge  was  not  an  ass,  although 
he  would  have  liked  to  call  him  one. 

Next  Paul  came  the  beautiful  Hermione,  with  mag- 
nificent shoulders  white  as  flour,  and  between  her  and 
her  mother  sat  a  man  named  Walter  Crichell,  a  portrait 
painter,  one  of  the  best  in  the  secondary  school — a  man 
with  over-red  lips  and  short  white  hands  with  unpleasant, 
pointed  fingers. 

"That  fellow's  a  stinker,"  Wick  decided,  never  to 
change  his  mind. 

Next  came  the  hostess,  thin,  worn,  rather  silent,  in 
the  natural  isolation  of  an  old  woman  sitting  between 
two  young  men,  each  of  whom  had  youth  and  beauty 
on  his  far  side. 

Then,  of  course,  came  Oliver  himself  and  Grisel.  Next 
to  Grisel,  Gaskell-Walker,  the  lower  part  of  whose  face 
was  clever,  but  who  would  probably  find  himself  handi- 
capped by  the  qualities  belonging  to  too  high,  too 
straight  a  forehead;  and  next  him,  consequently  on  the 
host's  left,  sat  Crichell's  wife.  Young  Wick  could  not 
look  at  her  very  comfortably  without  leaning  forward, 
but  he  caught  one  or  two  glimpses  of  her  face  as  Wai- 
bridge  bent  over  her,  and  promised  himself  a  good  look 
in  the  drawing-room.  She  was  worth  it,  he  knew.  A 
soft,  velvety  brown  creature,  a  little  on  the  fat  side,  but 
rather  beautiful.  It  was  plain,  too,  that  the  old  man 
admired  her. 

Mr.  Wick  studied  his  host's  face  for  a  moment  as  he 


HAPPY  HOUSE  35 


thus  completed  his  circle  of  observation,  and  so  strong 
were  his  feelings  as  he  looked  at  Mr.  Walbridge  that 
quite  unintentionally  he  said  "Ugh !"  aloud. 

"What  did  you  say?"  It  was  Mrs.  Walbridge  who 
spoke — her  first  remark  for  quite  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
— and  in  her  large  eyes  was  the  anxious,  guilty  look  of 
one  who  has  allowed  herself  to  wool-gather  in  public. 

Wick  started,  blushed  scarlet,  and  then  burst  out 
laughing  at  his  dilemma. 

"I  didn't  say  anything,"  he  answered.  "I  was  only 
thinking.  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mrs.  Walbridge." 

Her  worn  face  softened  into  a  kind  smile,  and  he 
noticed  that  her  teeth  were  even  and  very  white. 

"It  is  awful,  isn't  it,"  she  said,  "to — to  get  thinking 
about  things  when  one  ought  to  be  talking?  I'm  afraid 
I'm  very  dull  for  a  young  man  to  sit  next." 

"Oh,  come,  Mrs.  Walbridge,"  he  protested,  "when 
you  know  how  they  all  lapped  up  that  article  I  wrote 
about  you." 

She  bridled  gently.  "It  was  a  very  nice  article." 
After  a  minute  she  added  anxiously,  her  thin  fingers 
pressing  an  old  blue  enamel  brooch  that  fastened  the 
rather  crumpled  lace  at  her  throat :  "Tell  me,  Mr.  Wick, 
do  you — do  you  really  think  that — that  people  like  my 
books  as  much  as  they  used  to?" 

"You  must  have  a  very  big  public,"  he  answered, 
wishing  she  had  not  put  the  question. 

"Yes,  I  know  I  have,  but — you  see,  of  course  I'm 
not  young  any  more,  and  the  children — they  know  a 
great  many  people,  and  bring  some  of  them  here  and — 
I've  noticed  that  while  they  are  all  very  kind,  they  don't 
seem  to  have — to  have  really  read  my  books." 


36  HAPPY  HOUSE 


"Don't  they?"  said  Wick,  full  of  sympathy.  "Dear 
me!" 

She  shook  her  head.  "No,  they  really  don't,  and  I've 
been  wondering  if — if  it  is  that  they're  beginning  to  find 
me — a  little  old-fashioned." 

What  he  wanted  to  say  in  return  for  this  was:  "But, 
bless  your  heart,  you  are  old-fashioned,  the  old-f ashionest 
old  dear  that  ever  lived!"  What  he  did  say  was: 
"Well,  I  suppose  lots  of  people  think  Thackeray  and 

Dickens  old-fashioned "  But  when  Grisel  turned 

just  then  and  fired  some  question  at  him,  he  felt  a  weak 
longing  to  mop  his  brow.  It  had  been  a  narrow  escape, 
and  he  would  not  have  hurt  the  old  lady's  feelings  for 
worlds.  Something  about  this  faded,  exhausted-looking 
little  old  literary  bee  touched  the  young  fellow  in  a  quite 
new  way. 

"Gosh!"  he  thought;  "now  if  it  was  mother,  she 
wouldn't  let  people  think  her  old-fashioned ;  she  wouldn't 
be  old-fashioned.  My  word,  wouldn't  she  just  sit  up  at 
night  and  write  something  to  beat  Wells,  and  Elinor 
Glyn,  and  the  rest  of  them  into  a  cocked  hat!" 

Grisel,  in  white — white  that  would  have  done  very 
well,  he  thought,  in  Grosvenor  Square  or  St.  James's — 
was  in  her  best  mood  that  night,  and  as  they  talked  he 
felt  himself  slipping  lower  and  lower  into  the  abyss — 
that  pleasant  abyss  on  the  edge  of  which  he  had  hovered 
so  many  times  before  without  letting  himself  go. 

It  was  then  that  the  question  of  Bruce  Collier's  book 
rose.  It  was  Crichell  who  brought  up  the  subject,  and 
as  he  described  the  book  he  enthusiastically  waved  his 
peculiarly  white  hands,  which  Mr.  Wick  thought,  with 
some  disgust,  looked  as  if  they  were  on  the  point  of 


HAPPY  HOUSE  37 


sprouting  into  horrid  white  tubers  like  potatoes  in  a 
dark  cellar. 

"The  finest  book  I've  read  for  years,"  he  declared. 
"Magnificent  piece  of  work." 

"Walter's  quite  mad  about  it,"  his  wife  put  in,  leaning 
forward  and  making  motions  with  her  hand  and  throat 
like  those  of  a  sunning  pigeon.  "He  dined  with  us  last 
night — Mr.  Collier — and  he's  an  extraordinary  creature. 
Never  touched  a  drug  in  his  life,  yet  he  knows  all  about 

it — and  as  for  the  other  things "  she  shrugged  her 

shoulders  and  laughed.  Her  husband  shook  his  fist  at 
her.  ^ 

"Now,  Clara,"  he  said,  "curb  that  tongue  of  yours, 
my  dear,  or  you'll  shock  Mrs.  Walbridge.  Have  you 
read  the  book,  Mrs.  Walbridge,  'Reek'?" 

The.  little  writer  shook  her  head.  "No,  I  haven't  very 
much  time  for  reading.  I've  just  read  'The  Rosary.' 
What  a  delightful  book  it  is !" 

Grisel  stretched  her  hand  across  Wick  and  took  hold 
of  her  mother's. 

"Never  mind,  darling,  you  shan't  be  teased,  and  you 
mustn't  read  'Reek.'  I  shouldn't  dream  of  allowing 
you  to." 

Walbridge,  in  whose  handsome,  swollen  eyes  a  new 
little  flame  was  showing,  looked  up  from  a  whispered 
talk  with  Mrs.  Crichell  and  smiled  at  his  wife. 

"No,  darling,"  he  agreed,  "I  can't  have  you  reading 
such  books.  It  would  ruin  your  style.  I'm  sure  Mr. 
Wick  agrees  with  me,  don't  you,  Mr.  Wick  ?  Mr.  Wick 
is  a  great  admirer  of  your  books,"  he  added  in  an  in- 
sufferable way. 

She  didn't  speak,  but  Wick  saw  her  thin  lips  quiver 
a  little,  and  hastened  to  answer: 


38  HAPPY  HOUSE 


"I'm  only  a  business  man,  Mr.  Walbridge,  and  know 
nothing  at  all  about  literature,  but  I  know  this  much — 
I  bet  the  chap  who  wrote  'Reek'  would  give  his  eye- 
tooth  to  have  Mrs.  Walbridge's  sales!" 

Hermione  Gaskell-Walker  raised  her  heavy-lidded  eyes 
and  smiled  at  him  gratefully,  as  she  murmured,  "Darling 
mum,"  and,  stimulated  by  his  success,  Mr.  Wick  ended 
the  conversation  by  saying  firmly,  as  Mrs.  Walbridge 
caught  the  eye  of  the  pearl  lady :  "Filthy  book,  anyhow ; 
not  fit  to  be  read  by  ladies " 


Some  hours  later  a  not  very  crestfallen  young  man 
sat  in  the  small  dining-room  of  n,  Spencer  Crescent, 
Brondesbury,  and  ate  poached  eggs  on  toast — he  was 
always  ready  for  poached  eggs — and  announced  to  his 
dressing-gowned  and  beslippered  mother  that  the  lady 
of  his  choice  had  rejected  him. 

"Couldn't  dream  of  it,"  he  announced  cheerfully, 
reaching  for  butter  with  his  own  knife  in  a  way  only 
permissible  at  such  out-of-hour  meals.  "She  pretended 
to  be  surprised,  you  know,  and  then,  when  that  didn't 
work,  she  tried  to  assume  that  I  was  mad.  Pretty  little 
piece,  she  is,  mother.  Dimples  in  her  lovely  face  she's 
got,  and  eyes  like  two  little  black  suns,  shining  away " 

His  mother  coughed  drily.  "You  don't  seem  remark- 
ably cast  down,"  she  observed,  rubbing  her  nose  with 
her  thumb — a  broad  and  capable  thumb,  "and  here 
was  I  wasting  my  tissue  in  an  agony  of  fear  about  my 
broken-hearted  boy." 

He  cocked  his  head  as  little  snub-nosed  dogs  do,  in- 
deed, he  all  but  cocked  one  ear,  and  his  eyes  twinkled. 

"You  and  your  tissue,  indeed!     You  don't  think  I 


HAPPY  HOUSE  39 


thought  she  was  going  to  jump  down  my  throat,  do  you? 
I'd  hate  a  girl  who  took  me  first  time.  I  like  being 
refused — looks  well.  I  hope  she'll  refuse  me  three  or 
four  times  more." 

"If  she  could  see  you  eat  poached  eggs  in  your  shirt- 
sleeves, with  all  the  varnish  off  your  hair,  she'd  go  on 
refusing  you  to  the  crack  o'  doom,"  retorted  the  old 
lady. 

Then  they  went  to  bed,  and  in  five  minutes  the  rejected 
one  was  snoring  comfortably. 


CHAPTER  IV 

"ROSELEAVES  AND  LAVENDER,"  Violet  Walbridge' s  last 
novel,  was  selling  pretty  well,  but  a  iew  days  after  the 
dinner  party  the  author  left  her  house  about  half-past 
eleven,  mounted  a  No.  3  bus,  settled  herself  in  the  prow 
and  travelled  down  to  the  Strand  in  answer  to  a  rather 
pressing  invitation  from  her  publishers. 

It  was  a  fine  October  morning,  with  a  little  tang  in 
the  air,  so  windless  that  some  early  falling  leaves  left 
their  boughs  with  an  air  of  doubt  and  travelled  very 
slowly,  almost  hesitatingly,  towards  the  earth.  All  the 
smoke  went  straight  up  into  the  sky,  and  several  caged 
birds  on  the  route  were  singing  loudly  outside  their 
windows.  The  bus  was  full  of  people,  more  or  less  all 
of  them  of  the  type  who  made  Mrs.  Walbridge's  public, 
and  there  were,  without  doubt,  several  girls  sitting  almost 
within  reach  of  her  who  would  have  felt  it  in  the  nature 
of  an  adventure  to  meet  the  author  of  "Oueenie's 
Promise"  and  "One  Maid's  Word."  It  is  interesting  to 
think  that  there  are  fewer  people  who  would  genuinely 
thrill  at  the  sight  of  George  Meredith,  if  he  were  still 
alive,  than  would  thrill  at  having  met  such  a  writer  as 
Violet  Walbridge.  But  no  one  knew  who  the  little, 
dowdily  dressed  woman  was,  and  her  journey  to  Charing 
Cross  was  uneventful.  God,  who  gives  all  mercies,  gave 
the  gift  of  vanity,  and  Mrs.  Walbridge,  although  very 
humble-minded,  was  not  without  her  innocent  share  in 
the  consoling  fault.  More  than  once  she  had  given  her- 

40 


HAPPY  HOUSE  41 


self  the  pleasure  of  telling  some  casually  met  stranger 
who  she  was.  Once  her  yearly  holiday  at  Bexhill  had 
been  given  a  glow  of  glory  by  the  fact  that  she  had  by 
chance  found  the  chambermaid  at  the  little  hotel,  en- 
grossed to  the  point  of  imbecility  in  "Starlight  and 
Moonlight."  Delicately,  shyly,  she  had  made  known  to 
the  girl  the  fact  of  her  identity,  and  the  reverence,  al- 
most awe,  of  the  poor  ignorant  servant  in  meeting  the 
author  of  that  splendid  book  had  made  her  very  happy 
for  many  hours. 

Another  time  a  working  man  in  a  train  had  been 
quarrelling  with  his  wife  for  the  possession  of  a  torn 
copy  of  "Aaron's  Rod"  (a  book  which  Mrs.  Walbridge 
privately  considered  a  little  strong),  and  as  she  got' out 
of  the  train  and  the  man  handed  her  down  her  holdall, 
she  had  thrown  the  exciting  information  of  her  identity 
into  his  face  and  run  for  her  life,  feeling  herself  akin  to 
Dickens,  Miss  Ethel  M.  Dell,  Robert  Louis  Stevenson, 
and  all  the  other  great  ones  of  the  earth.  But  these 
splendid  events  had  never  been  frequent,  and  of  late 
years  they  had  almost  ceased  to  occur.  And  as  the  little 
lady  got  off  the  bus  at  Charing  Cross  and  blundered 
apologetically  into  a  tall,  rosy-faced  girl,  who  clutched 
The  Red  Magazine  to  her  breast,  she  wondered  wistfully 
if  the  girl  would  have  been  delighted  if  she  had  told 
her. 


Messrs.  Lubbock  &  Payne,  publishers,  had  their  offices 
in  the  Strand,  and  Mrs.  Walbridge's  appointment  was 
for  half-past  eleven.  She  felt  a  little  nervous  and  de- 
pressed as  she  went  up  in  the  lift,  for  Mr.  Lubbock  was 
a  very  imposing  man,  whose  fine  bay-windowed  waist- 


42  HAPPY  HOUSE 


coat  always  overawed  her  a  little.  However,  it  was 
probably  the  glory  of  the  golden  autumn  day  that  had 
got  on  her  nerves.  She  was  always  sad  on  such  days, 
so  she  tried  to  look  bold  and  successful  as  she  passed 
Wheeler,  the  old  clerk,  Mr.  Lubbock's  right-hand  man, 
whom  she  had  known  for  a  quarter  of  a  century. 

Wheeler,  however,  did  not  respond  to  her  remarks 
about  the  weather  as  he  had  once  done,  and  when  she 
had  waited  nearly  half  an  hour  her  depression  had  grown 
still  greater,  and  she  was  finally  ushered  into  the  inner 
office  with  hands  and  feet  icy  with  fear. 

Harrison  Lubbock,  a  large,  abnormally  clean-looking 
old  gentleman,  with  a  ruff  of  silky  white  hair  round  his 
polished  scalp,  greeted  her  kindly,  but  without  en- 
thusiasm. 

"I've  asked  you  to  call,  Mrs.  Walbridge,"  he  began 
at  once  with  a  pronounced  glance  at  the  clock,  "on  a 
little  matter  of  business.  Mr.  Payne  and  I  have  been 
talking  things  over  of  late — business  matters  you  under- 
stand— and  we  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  there 
are  one  or  two  of  our  authors  to  whom  a  few  words  of 
advice  might  be  of  use."  He  paused,  and  she  looked 
at  him  anxiously. 

"I  see,"  she  said,  her  face  growing  a  little  paler.  "I 
— I'm  one  of  those  authors?" 

He  bowed,  and  the  soft  folds  of  his  beautifully  shaved 
double  chin  dropped  a  little  lower  over  his  high  collar. 

"Yes,  yes,  quite  so.  You're  a  very  old,  shall  I  say, 
client? — of  ours " 

She  would  have  liked  to  reply  that  at  that  moment 
the  word  patient  might  be  more  applicable  to  her,  but  she 
dared  not,  and  after  a  moment  he  went  on : 

"I  think  we  may  say  that  we  are  very  old  friends." 


HAPPY  HOUSE  43 


This  was  awful.  She  was  no  business  woman,  and 
she  had  little  knowledge  of  the  world,  but  even  she  knew 
that  it  meant  danger,  in  an  interview  avowedly  a  business 
interview,  when  friendship  was  invoked.  She  stammered 
something,  and  he  went  on : 

"Your  books  have  sold — sell — very  well,  on  the  whole. 
We  have  done  our  best  for  them,  and,  as  you  know,  the 
cost  of  publishing  and  advertising — particularly  adver- 
tising— has  nearly  doubled  since  the  war." 

Again  he  paused,  and  this  time  she  bowed,  being  afraid 
to  say  that  she  knew  conditions  were  such  that  her 
percentage  on  sales  had  gone  down,  while  the  sale  price 
of  her  books  had  gone  up  to  seven  and  six.  She  noticed 
Mr.  Lubbock's  sleeve-links;  they  were  new  ones  and 
very  neat,  of  gold  and  platinum.  How  she  wished  she 
could  buy  a  pair  like  that  for  Paul!  In  the  old  days 
her  envy  would  have  been  for  Ferdie.  Mr.  Lubbock 
cleared  his  throat,  fitted  his  fat  fingertips  neatly  together, 
and  began  to  be  sprightly. 

"Amazing  how  the  output  of  books  of  fiction  has 
increased  of  late  years,  isn't  it?  Dear  me,  I  can  remem- 
ber when  2250  would  have  been  considered  a  big  output, 
and  now  there  are  so  many  good  writers,  so  many  excel- 
lent writers,  Mrs.  Walbridge,  that  we  are  forced  by 
competition  and  market  conditions  to  bring  out  nearly 
three  times  that  number.  I  wonder  if  you  have  kept  up 
with  the  new  writers,"  he  went  on  after  a  pause,  "Mrs. 
Levett,  Joan  Kelly,  Austen  Goodheart,  and  so  on — and 
Wanda  Potter.  Wanda  Potter's  last  book  sold  over  a 
hundred  thousand." 

"I  haven't  read  any  of  them,  I'm  afraid.  I've  so 

little  time "  She  tried  to  smile  and  felt  as  if  her 

lips  were  freezing. 


44  HAPPY  HOUSE 


"Just  so,  just  so;  exactly  what  I  was  saying  to  Payne. 
'Mrs.  Walbridge  is  a  very  busy  woman,'  I  said  to  Payne. 
'She  hasn't  time — she  can't  be  expected  to  have  time — 
to  read  all  these  things,  so  it's  quite  natural  that — 

that '  "  He  broke  off,  and  taking  up  a  little  bronze 

figure  of  a  poodle,  that  served  as  a  paper  weight,  he 
examined  it  carefully  for  a  moment.  "I'm  sure  you 
understand  what  I  mean,  Mrs.  Walbridge,"  he  said  at 
last. 

i  She  was  looking  at  the  corner  of  his  polished  mahog- 
any writing  table;  she  was  looking  at  two  carefully 
jointed  bits  of  wood,  finely  grained  and  smoothly  welded 
together,  but  what  she  saw  was  "Happy  House" ;  Ferdie 
and  his  new  cedar  cigar  chest  yawning  to  be  filled;  of 
an  unpaid  tailor's  bill;  of  his  annual  cough  (Ferdie 
coughed  himself  regularly  to  Torquay  every  autumn)  ; 
she  saw  Paul  and  his  new  edition  de  luxe  of  Swinburne, 
and  the  Rowlandson  "Horse  Fair"  he  had  taken  her 
to  see  in  King  Street,  St.  James's — the  "Horse  Fair" 
that  was  to  cost  "only  eighteen  guineas."  She  saw  the 
little  sea-green  frock  that  .hung  in  the  great  Frenchman's 
window  in  Hanover  Square,  the  little  frock  that  would 
look  so  beautiful  on  Grisel.  She  saw  a  vision  of  a  heca- 
tomb pf  roasts  of  beef  and  saddles  of  mutton,  and 
oysters,  and  burgundy,  that  she  was  longing  to  offer  up 
to  her  family  gods.  She  saw  the  natural  skunk  coat  she 
had  been  planning  to  give  to  poor  dear  Caroline  for 
Christmas.  She  saw  the  new  bathroom,  on  which  the 
men  were  already  working,  that  was  to  be  Grisel's.  Then 
these  things  passed  away,  and  the  corner  of  -the  table 
again  appeared,  and  Mr.  Lubbock  was  saying,  in  that 
kind,  dreadful  voice  of  his :  "I  feel  quite  sure  that  you 


HAPPY  HOUSE  45 


understand  our  position,  Mrs.  Walbridge,  and,  after  all, 
the  reduction  is  not  of  very  great  consequence." 

Before  she  could  speak  the  telephone  bell  rang.  He 
took  up  the  receiver  and  bent  forward,  politeness  and 
courtesy  expressed  in  every  line  of  his  big  figure  as 
clearly  as  if  the  telephone  had  been  a  person  he  was 
speaking  to. 

"Oh — oh,  .yes,  is  that  you,  Payne?"  she  heard  him 
say.  "Yes,  what  an  odd  coincidence,  she's  here  with 
me  now!"  and  Mrs.  Walbridge  knew  that  it  was  no 
coincidence;  that  they  had  planned  it  all  out  between 
them,  and  for  a  moment  she  had  a  wild  idea  of  flight. 
She  would  run  and  run  down  the  narrow,  dusty  stairs 
and  out  into  the  street,  and  not  hear  any  of  it  said.  It 
seemed  that  she  could  bear  the  reduction  of  her  money, 
but  that  she  could  not  bear  it  discussed  by  these  two 
men  who  held  not  only  her,  but  "Happy  House"  and 
everybody  in  "Happy  House"  in  the  hollow  of  their 
hands.  But  she  dared  not  move,  and  presently  Mr. 
Payne  came  in. 

Mr.  Payne  was  a  little,  yellowish-pink  man,  who 
looked  like  a  weazel.  He  had  lashless  and  browless  blue 
eyes,  and  his  nose  was  sharp  and  his  teeth  looked  very 
sharp.  He  was  brisk  and  brusque  in  his  manner,  and 
he  dashed  at  the  subject  of  the  smaller  price  for  the  next 
book  with  an  abruptness  that  was  only  one  degree  more 
bearable  than  Mr.  Lubbock's  smoothness. 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  declared,  shaking  hands  rather  vio- 
lently. "I  knew  you  understood,  Mrs.  Walbridge, 
didn't  I,  Lubbock?  'Mrs.  Walbridge  is  a  business 
woman,'  I  said,  'and  of  course  she'll  understand  that 
the  war  has  changed  things  very  considerably,  to  say 
nothing  of  the — of  the — ah — inevitable  march  of  time.' ' 


46  HAPPY  HOUSE 


"I  was  telling  Mrs.  Walbridge,"  Lubbock  joined  in, 
"that  I  thought  it  would  be  a  good  plan  for  her  to  read 
some  of  the  new  books.  Haven't  we  got  Wanda  Potter's 
'Rice  Paper'?  Excellent  story,  excellent — and  sells 
well."  He  called  up  someone  on  the  telephone,  and 
smiling  into  it,  working  his  rough  eyebrows  genially,  he 
gave  orders  for  someone  named  Briggs  to  get  Miss 
Potter's  last  book  for  Mrs.  Walbridge.  "Wait  a  minute, 
George.  What  other  ones  would  you  suggest  ?  Oh,  yes, 
and  Mr.  Goodheart's  'New  Odyssey.'  Useful  book  that," 
to  Mrs.  Walbridge.  "You  take  them,  with  our  compli- 
ments, and  just — just  go  through  them " 

Mrs.  Walbridge  had  risen  and  stood  before  the  table, 
her  hands  clutching  very  hard  at  her  shabby  leather  bag. 

Mr.  Payne  was  about  to  speak,  when  something  in 
her  face  stopped  him.  They  had  known  her  for  years. 
They  had  treated  her  very  well,  and  they  had  made  a 
great  deal  of  money  out  of  her.  But  both  of  them  felt 
at  that  moment  that  until  then  they  had  never  quite 
known  her.  Her  face  was  very  white,  and  her  immense 
hollow  eyes  were  full  of  almost  unbearable  misery.  But 
it  was  the  bravery  of  her  that  struck  them  both. 

"Do  I  understand,"  she  said  quietly,  "that  you  mean 
that  I  am  old-fashioned — too  old-fashioned?"  They  did 
not  answer,  and  she  went  on,  not  realising  that  they  both 
felt  that  she  had  turned  the  tables  on  them.  "You  mean 
that  my  books  don't  sell  so  well  as  they  did  because  they 
are  not  up  to  date,  because  I'm — old." 

"Good  gracious,  Mrs.  Walbridge,"  broke  in  Mr.  Payne, 
with  the  horrid  facetiousness  of  well-meaning  vulgarity, 
"what  an  idea!  We  simply  mean  that  because  you  are 
so  busy  you  have  not  had  time  to — how  shall  I  say  it? — 
to  keep  exactly  up  to  date.  But  a  lady  with  your  gifts 


HAPPY  HOUSE  47 


and  your  great  experience  is  not  going  to  pretend  that 
she  finds  any  difficulty  in  changing  this " 

She  bowed.  "Thank  you,  Mr.  Payne.  I  think  I  un- 
derstand. My  new  book  would  have  been  ready  in  a  few 
days,  but  if  you  can  give  me  an  extra  fortnight,  I'll  go 
through  it  again  and  try  to — to  modernise  it  a  little." 

Then  she  said  good  morning,  and  went  quietly  out. 

!Mr.  Lubbock  let  himself  heavily  down  into  his  swivel 
chair. 

"Dear  me,"  he  said,  being  a  man  of  unblemished 
vocabulary,  "that  was  very  unpleasant,  Payne." 

Mr.  Payne  lit  a  cigarette.  "It  was  beastly,"  he  re- 
torted, blinking  rapidly  through  the  smoke.  "Upon  my 
word,  it's  quite  upset  me.  Poor  old  thing !  She'll  never 
be  able  to  do  it,  Lubbock.  Never  in  this  world.  By 
God,  it's  quite  upset  me!  I'll  have  a  pint  of  champagne 
for  my  lunch." 


Violet  Walbridge  had  a  little  shopping  to  do.  She 
had  to  go  to  Sketchley's  to  get  some  blouses  that  had 
been  cleaned  for  Griselda;  she  went  to  Self  ridges  for  a 
paper  box  of  opened  oysters  for  Paul,  who  was  at  home 
with  a  cold;  and  she  had  two  bills  to  pay  in  Oxford 
Street.  When  these  things  were  done,  and  she  had 
bought  a  bunch  of  chrysanthemums  from  a  flower-girl, 
she  took  her  place  near  the  kerb  -and  waited  for  her  bus. 
And  then  it  was  that  the  malicious  gods  struck  her  their 
final  blow  for  that  day.  Two  young  women  stood  near 
her,  laden  with  parcels,  cheerfully  talkative.  One  of 
them  had  been  to  a  dance  the  night  before;  the  other 
one's  baby  had  a  new  tooth,  a  very  remarkable  tooth, 
it  seemed,  and  both  of  them  were  in  a  state  of  pleasant 


48  HAPPY  HOUSE 


turmoil  and  fret  about  frocks  that  they  were  having 
made.  Mrs.  Walbridge  listened  to  them  innocently, 
standing  first  on  one  foot  and  then  on  the  other  to  rest 
herself,  her  various  parcels  hugged  close  under  her  arms, 
the  oysters  borne  like  a  sacred  offering  in  both  hands. 

"Dear  me,"  one  of  the  young  women  said  suddenly, 
"it's  after  one  o'clock !" 

Mrs.  Walbridge  started,  for  one  o'clock  was  her  lunch 
hour,  and  her  husband  was  very  particular  about  punc- 
tuality in  others. 

"I  meant  to  pop  in  to  the  Times  Book  Club  and  get 
something  to  read,"  declared  the  mother  of  the  baby 
with  the  new  tooth,  "but  it's  too  late.  Have  you  read 
that  thing  'Reek'?  I've  forgotten  who  it's  by — some- 
body new." 

"No.  I've  been  down  for  it  for  days  and  days,  but 
I  can't  get  it.  I've  read  a  splendid  new  book,  though 
— Wanda  Potter's  'Rice  Paper' — awfully  clever,  and 
Joan  Kelly's  'Ploughshares.'  " 

"I  had  an  ulcerated  tooth  the  other  day,"  answered 
her  friend,  "and  couldn't  go  out,  and  sent  Winnie  to 
Boots'  with  a  list  of  books,  and  they  were  all  out,  so 
that  nice  red-haired  girl — you  know — picked  out  some 
herself  and  sent  me,  and  guess  what  one  of  them  was. 
Violet  Walbridge's  last  one — 'Rosemary  and  Lavender' 
something- 


The  other  one  laughed.  "Oh,  I  know.  'Sage  and 
Onions,'  George  calls  it.  Awful  trash — can't  stand  her 
nowadays." 

A  bus  arrived  at  that  moment,  and  the  two  young 
women  going  on  top,  Mrs.  Walbridge  crept  inside,  and 
sat  crushed  between  two  large  uncomfortable  women, 
her  face  bent  over  the  oysters. 


HAPPY.  HOUSE  49 


"  'Sage  and  Onions/  "  she  kept  repeating  under  her 
breath,  "  'Sage  and  Onions' " 

Ferdie  was  very  much  annoyed  because  she  was  late 
for  lunch,  and  called  her  very  selfish  to  be  out  parading 
the  streets  doing  idiotic  errands  when  she  ought  to  be 
at  home. 


CHAPTER  V 

"LORD  EFFINGHAM"  was  the  book  on  which  Mrs.  Wai- 
bridge  was  at  work,  and  she  sat  the  greater  part  of  the 
next  three  nights  reading  the  books  that  Mr.  Lubbock 
had  given  her,  with  a  view  to  freshening  up  her  nearly 
finished  novel.  She  could  not  read  during  the  day,  be- 
cause she  had  too  much  to  do. 

The  plumbers  had  played  havoc  with  the  house  in 
getting  the  new  bathroom  in,  and  the  cook  had  to  leave 
even  more  unexpectedly  than  cooks  generally  leave  be- 
cause her  only  sister  was  marrying  and  she  had  to  go 
home  and  look  after  her  mother.  This  domestic  com- 
plication is  familiar  to  many,  but  it  didn't  make  it  any 
easier  for  Mrs.  Walbridge.  Nor  did  things  improve 
when  Maud  Twiss  and  her  husband  went  for  a  second 
honeymoon  to  Ireland,  leaving  little  Hilary  at  "Happy 
House." 

Mrs.  Walbridge  loved  her  grandson;  but  he  was  a 
querulous,  spoilt  child,  and  at  the  best  of  times  his  pres- 
ence was  upsetting.  Now,  with  no  cook,  with  plumbers 
and  the  dreadful  necessity  of  modernising  "Lord  Effing- 
ham,"  the  little  boy  nearly  drove  her  mad. 

One  morning,  about  four  weeks  after  her  interview 
with  Mr.  Lubbock,  she  was  sitting  in  her  little  attic  at 
the  back  of  the  house,  surrounded  by  closely  written 
sheets  of  foolscap  into  which  she  had  red-inked  her 
desperate  efforts  at  enlivening — Lady  Tryx,  the  hero- 
ine, had  started  on  a  new  career  of  endless  cigarettes  and 

50 


HAPPY  HOUSE  51 


cocktails,  and  a  hitherto  blameless  housemaid,  who  at 
first  had  been  dismissed  by  an  unkind  countess  on  a 
charge  of  theft,  was  now  burdened  with  an  illegitimate 
baby;  but  even  this  failed  to  brighten  up  the  dull  level 
of  decency  that  was  so  discouraging  to  the  publishers. 
Violet  Walbridge  was  a  failure  at  illegitimacy  and  law- 
less passion,  and,  what  was  worse,  she  knew  it. 

It  was  cold  up  in  the  attic,  for  there  was  no  fireplace, 
and  something  had  gone  wrong  with  her  oil-stove.  Paul 
had  promised  to  see  to  it  before  going  to  the  City  that 
morning,  but  he  had  forgotten,  so  his  mother  had  to 
put  an  old  flannel  dressing-gown  on  over  her  ordinary 
clothes  and  wrap  her  aching  feet  in  a  shawl.  Her  hands 
were  covered  with  red  ink,  for  her  cheap  stylographic 
pen  leaked,  and  her  pretty  black  hair,  wavy  and  attrac- 
tively threaded  with  white,  was  tumbled  and  loose. 

She  was  utterly  discouraged  and  unhappy  about  the 
book.  "Lord  Effingham,"  with  ridiculous  perseverance, 
insisted  on  pursuing  his  so  blightingly  blameless  career. 
Her  effort  had  put  the  book,  such  as  it  was,  completely 
out  of  shape,  and  she  could  have  cried  with  despair  as 
she  sat  there  staring  through  the  curtainless  window  at 
the  sky.  Her  burden  was  so  very  great,  and  it  made 
it  worse,  although  she  had  always  prided  herself  on  keep- 
ing her  secret,  that  no  onejtnew  how  utterly  dependent 
the  whole  household  of  "Happy  House"  was  on  her 
books. 

Her  husband  had  an  office  and  regarded  himself  as  a 
business  man;  Paul  worked  in  a  bank,  and  poor  Guy 
had  been  called  up  and  was  in  France.  (He  had  been 
with  some  stockbrokers  in  the  City.)  But  none  of  them 
had  ever  contributed  anything  serious  to  the  upkeep  of 
the  house. 


52  HAPPY  HOUSE 


Paul's  salary  was  small,  and  his  mother  considered 
that  the  poor  boy  really  needed  all  that  he  made,  because 
he  was  one  of  those  people  who  are  very  dependent  on 
beautiful  surroundings.  He  was  a  poet,  too,  and  had 
written  some  charming  verse,  most  of  which  was  still 
unpublished,  but  every  line  of  which  was  carefully  copied 
in  a  vellum  covered  book  someone  had  sent  to  his  mother 
one  Christmas  from  Florence. 

Somehow  that  morning  her  mind  was  full  of  the  now 
long  absent  Guy.  Guy  was  the  troublesome  one.  They 
were  all  tabulated  in  her  mind — Hermione  being  the 
beauty,  and  Maud,  "my  eldest  girl,"  while  Paul  was 
artistic. 

There  had  been  scrapes  in  Guy's  early  days  (he  was 
only  twenty-one  now).  Certainly  his  tendencies  had 
been  inherited  from  his  father — full  grown  cap-a-pie 
tendencies  they  were,  sprung  whole,  it  seemed,  from 
Ferdie's  brain,  as  Pallas  Athene  sprang  from  her  father, 
Zeus's.  The  boy  was  fond  of  billiards  and  devoted  to 
horses,  and  there  had  been  a  time — a  very  tragic  time — 
when  he  had  shown  signs  of  being  too  fond  of  whisky 
and  soda.  But  that  was  past.  Twice  he  had  been  home 
on  leave  from  the  front,  and  he  had  undoubtedly  im- 
proved in  many  ways. 

A  year  ago  there  had  been  an  Entanglement — (Mrs. 
Walbridge  thought  of  it  with  a  capital  in  her  mind) — 
with  a  young  Frenchwoman  in  Soho,  but  that  too  seemed 
to  have  died  down  and  now  that  the  war  was  certainly 
going  to  end  before  long — this  dreadful  war  to  which 
we  in  England  had  so  dreadfully  become  accustomed — 
he  would  be  coming  back.  She  sighed,  for  Guy's  return 
would  mean  an  even  severer  strain  on  her  resources. 
He  was  rather  a  dandy  and  fond  of  clothes,  but  he  had 


HAPPY  HOUSE  53 


grown  and  expanded  of  late,  and  would  need  new 
things. 

She  looked  down  with  something  very  much  like 
hatred  at  the  impeccable  "Lord  Effingham,"  whose  per- 
sistent virtue  and  the  wholesome  tendencies  of  whose 
female  friends  were  such  drawbacks  to  her  living  chil- 
dren. 

She  struggled  on  and  wrote  a  few  pages,  realising 
that  the  interpolations  she  had  made  were  as  clumsy 
and  damaging  to  her  story  as  were  the  red  ink  words 
that  expressed  them  to  the  fair  sheets  of  her  manuscript. 

Presently  she  heard  footsteps,  and  a  familiar  little 
cough,  coming  up  the  stairs.  It  was  Ferdinand  coming, 
she  knew,  for  a  talk  with  her  about  his  visit  to  Torquay. 

"Dear  me,  Violet,  why  can't  you  write  downstairs 
like  a  Christian,"  he  began  fretfully,  turning  up  his  coat 
collar  and  plunging  his  hands  into  his  trouser  pockets. 
"All  this  affectation  of  needing  quiet  and  solitude  for 
such  work  as  yours  is  simply  ridiculous." 

She  glanced  up  at  him  without  moving.  "I'm  sorry, 
Ferdie,"  she  said  gently,  "but  indeed  it  isn't  affectation. 
I  really  can't  work  when  people  are  going  in  and  out, 
and  poor  little  Hilary  is  so  noisy." 

"Poor  little  Hilary!  Damn  nonsense!  I  slept  very 
badly  last  night,  and  had  just  got  nicely  off  this  morning 
about  half -past  nine,  when  he  came  into  my  room  and 
waked  me — wanted  my  boot-jack  for  a  boat,  little  beast!" 

"Oh,  I  am  sorry — I  told  him  he  mustn't  disturb  you. 
I'd  just  gone  down  to  show  Jessie  how  to  make  the 
mince " 

"Jessie's  cooking  is  abominable.  I  don't  know  why 
you  haven't  got  someone  by  this  time." 


54  HAPPY  HOUSE 


When  Ferdie's  indignation  had  died  away,  he  began 
again. 

"What  I  want  to  know  is  about  my  rooms  at  Torquay. 
Has  Mrs.  Bishop  written?" 

"Yes.  Her  letter  came  this  morning.  I've  got  it 
somewhere  here" — she  rummaged ,  about,  but  failed  to 
find  the  letter.  "I  must  have  left  it  downstairs.  She 
says  she  can't  let  you  have  the  front  room,  because  some 
general  has  got  it  and  is  going  to  stay  all  winter." 

"Damnation!  Just  the  kind  of  thing  that  always 
happens  to  me." 

The  clear  morning  light,  falling  undiluted  from  the 
sky,  seemed  to  expose  his  mean  soul  almost  cruelly,  and 
his  wife  turned  her  eyes  hastily  away.  She  had  known 
him  now,  as  he  really  was,  for  many  years  and  yet  some- 
how the  memory  of  what  he  had  once  seemed  to  be, 
what  he  had  been  to  her,  in  her  loving  imagination, 
came  back  to  her  with  painful  force,  and  smote  her  to 
the  heart. 

"She  says  there  is  a  very  nice  room  at  the  back — — " 

He  rose  impatiently,  waving  his  beautiful  hands,  on 
which  the  veins  were  beginning  to  stand  out  ominously. 

"Oh,  of  course,  you  would  think  it  delightful  for  me 
to  have  a  room  at  the  back.  Nobody  but  you  ever  does 
appreciate  beauty,  views  or  anything  of  that  kind. 
When  am  I  to  go?" 

"The  room  will  be  ready  on  Wednesday.  But,  listen, 
Ferdie,  if  you  think  you  can't  bear  it,  why  don't  you 
write  to  Mrs.  Bishop  yourself  and  ask  her  to  look  out 
something  for  you?  You  see,  she  knows  you,  so  she'd 
take  more  pains  than  if  I  wrote " 

A  smile  that  she  knew  and  hated  crept  round  his 
mouth.  "Yes,  that's  possible,  she  might,"  he  answered. 


HAPPY  HOUSE  55 


"Nice  little  woman,  Mrs.  Bishop,  and  although  she  is 
only  a  boarding-house  keeper,  she  knows  a  gentleman 
when  she  sees  him." 

At  the  door  he  paused.  "Well,  I'll  go  and  write  to 
her.  I  suppose  you've  got  some  money,  my  dear?  I 
paid  my  last  cent  to  the  income-tax  man  the  other  day. 
I'm  sure  you  needn't  have  declared  all  that  money  to 
them,  Violet- " 

"I  only  told  them  the  truth,  Ferdie." 

It  was  an  old  quarrel,  this  about  the  declaration  to 
the  income-tax  people,  and  one  in  which  he  was  always 
beaten,  so,  with  a  shrug,  he  went  downstairs. 

After  a  moment  he  called,  his  musical  voice  hoarse 
with  the  effort:  "Violet — I  say,  Violet,  have  my  new 
shirts  come?" 

"I — I  didn't  know  you  had  ordered  any,  dear " 

"Oh,  didn't  you?  No,  I  may  have  forgotten  to  t$ll 
you.  Well,  I  did.  Thought  I  might  as  well  get  two 
dozen  while  I  was  about  it.  Things  are  going  up  so." 

There  was  a  little  pause  and  then  she  said,  "I  hope 
you  got  them  at  that  nice  place  in  Oxford  Street?" 

He  had  begun  to  whistle,  but  now  he  stopped  and 
snarled  out,  "No,  I  didn't  then.  I  suppose  it's  my  busi- 
ness where  I  order  my  own  shirts?  I  got  them  at  my 
usual  shirt-makers  in  Jermyn  Street." 

Mrs.  Walbridge  went  quietly  back  into  her  little  study 
and  sat  down. 


That  afternoon  she  went  by  Underground  to  Oxford 
Street  and  from  there  walked  in  a  cold  grey  rain  to 
Queen  Anne  Street,  where  her  daughter,  Mrs.  Twiss, 
lived.  Doctor  Twiss  lived  in  one-half  of  a  roomy  old 


56  HAPPY  HOUSE 


house  in  Queen  Anne  Street.  His  waiting-room  and  his 
consulting-room  were  at  the  left  of  the  door,  those  on 
the  right  belonging  to  a  fashionable  dentist — but  the 
rest  of  his  rooms  were  two  flights  upstairs,  the  dentist, 
who  was  a  rich  man,  occupying  the  whole  of  the  first 
floor. 

Mrs.  Walbridge  paused  before  she  rang  at  the  upstairs 
door,  for  she  was  very  tired,  and  her  usually  placid 
thoughts  seemed  broken  and  confused.  Maud  was  her 
eldest  daughter  and  in  some  ways  the  most  companion- 
able, but  she  was  a  selfish  woman  and  devotedly  fond  of 
her  husband  and  little  boy,  so  that  she  had  scant  room 
for  anyone  else  in  her  life. 

"If  only  Maud  would  be  sympathetic,"  Mrs.  Wai- 
bridge  thought,  as  she  finally  rang. 

"Mrs.  Twiss  is  in  the  bedroom,"  the  maid  told  her, 
"she  ain't  very  well  to-day.  I  think  the  sea  voyage 
upset  'er." 

Mrs.  Walbridge  nodded  to  her  and  went  down  the 
narrow  rose-walled  passage  and  knocked. 

Mrs.  Twiss  was  lying  down  on  a  divan  at  the  foot  of 
her  bed,  reading. 

"Oh,  Mum,"  she  cried,  without  getting  up,  "how 
sweet  of  you  to  come  so  soon !  How  are  you,  all  right  ? 
We've  had  the  most  glorious  time — Moreton's  put  on 
four  pounds  and  never  looked  better  in  his  life." 

Mrs.  Walbridge  sat  down  and  looked  round  at  the 
pleasant,  familiar  room.  There  were  plenty  of  flowers 
about  and  piles  of  new  books,  and  all  the  illustrated 
weeklies,  and  on  a  little  Moorish  table  close  to  the  divan 
stood  a  gilt  basket  full  of  chocolates. 

"You  seem  to  be  having  a  comfortable  afternoon, 
my  dear." 


HAPPY  HOUSE  57 


Maud  laughed. 

"I  am.  I  expect  we  shall  have  a  pretty  bad  time  when 
we  begin  to  count  up — travelling  is  fearfully  expensive 
now — Moreton  had  to  send  home  for  an  extra  fifty 
pounds.  So  we're  taking  it  easy  to-day.  He's  gone  to 
the  hospital,  and  we're  dining  at  the  Carlton  and  going 
to  see  'Chu  Chin  Chow'  to-night." 

There  was  a  little  pause.  Mrs.  Walbridge  was  very 
unaccustomed  to  telling  bad  news;  being  told  it  was 
more  in  her  line.  But  she  was  in  such  distress  that 
she  had  thought  she  must  tell  Maud  about  Lubbock 
and  Payne.  It  would  have  done  her  good  just  to  talk 
it  over.  But  now,  when  she  tried,  she  found  she  could 
not. 

"Caroline  had  taken  Hilary  to  the  Zoo  when  your 
telephone  message  came,"  she  began,  "or  I  would  have 
brought  him  along.  He's  been  very  good,  Maud,  and 
his  appetite  is  splendid.  I  got  him  a  bottle  of  cod  liver 
oil  and  malt,  because  I  thought  his  little  ribs  stuck  out  a 
bit  when  I  bathed  him " 

"Oh,  the  pet!  I'm  longing  to  see  him!  We've 
brought  him  all  sorts  of  presents.  Oh,  Mum,  I  was 
going  to  get  you  a  sweet  little  bracelet  of  old  Irish  paste 
— you  know — a  thing  in  four  little  chains.  But  at  the 
last  minute  Moreton  found  we  had  spent  so  much  that 
I  had  to  give  him  my  last  fiver.  So  you'll  take  the  will 
for  the  deed,  won't  you?" 

"Of  course,  darling,  how  sweet  of  you  to  think  of 
it.  I'm  glad  Moreton  is  so  much  better,"  Mrs.  Wai- 
bridge  began  after  a  moment,  "I  hope  he'll  have  lots  of 
patients  this  winter." 

Maud's  fair  face  clouded.  She  was  a  big,  handsome 
woman,  though  less  shapely  in  her  features  than  her 


58  HAPPY  HOUSE 


sisters,  and  already  showed  signs  of  being  very  fat  in  a 
few  years'  time,  although  she  was  only  twenty-eight. 

"I  hope  so,  too,"  she  grumbled.  "Things  are  really 
awfully  serious.  I  believe  all  the  tradespeople  put  their 
prices  up  when  they  hear  this  address." 

"I  suppose  it  wouldn't — I  suppose  it  wouldn't  do  for 
you  to  go  and  live  in  a  cheaper  house  ?"  Mrs.  Walbridge 
faltered. 

Maud  sat  straight  up  in  her  horror  and  dropped  a 
half -bitten  chocolate  on  the  floor. 

"My  goodness,  mother,  what  a  perfectly  poisonous 
idea!  Why,  it  would  ruin  Moreton  after  having  begun 
here.  Of  course  we  can't. 

She  came  and  sat  down  on  a  stool  near  her  mother 
and  leaned  her  head  on  her  mother's  knees. 

"I'm  longing  to  see  Hilary,"  she  repeated,  playing 
with  a  bit  of  her  silk  dressing-gown  nervously.  "And 
I  have  something  to  tell  him,  Mum — he'll — he'll  be 
having  a  little  sister  in  the  spring." 

Poor  Mrs.  Walbridge  sat  perfectly  still  for  a  moment, 
her  hand  on  her  daughter's  silky  brown  hair.  Another 
baby,  another  duty,  another  worry,  and  she  would  be 
the  only  one  who  would  really  suffer,  although  Maud 
and  her  gay,  well-meaning  young  husband  would  talk 
a  great  deal  about  their  responsibilities. 

"Mum,"  Maud  said  coaxingly.  "Darling,  you've  got 
a  new  book  coming  out,  haven't  you  ?  Don't  go  and  buy 
Paul  any  more  of  those  nasty  Japanese  things;  those 
monkeys  make  me  sick  anyhow.  Be  a  lamb,  and  let  me 
have  a  hundred  pounds  to  see  me  through,  will  you?" 

There  was  nothing  particularly  imploring  in  her  voice, 
for  she  was  quite  used  to  asking  favours  of  her  mother, 
and  repeated  favours  always  turn  into  rights  sooner  or 


HAPPY  HOUSE  59 


later.  When  her  mother  didn't  answer,  she  screwed 
round  on  her  stool  and  looked  up. 

"Why,  Mum,"  she  cried,  "what's  the  matter?  Why 
do  you  look  like  that?" 

Mrs.  Walbridge  kissed  her.  "Nothing,  dear,  I'm  tired. 
I've  been  working  very  hard." 

She  rose  and  her  big  daughter  scrambled  to  her  feet, 
laughing  merrily. 

"Oh,  you  old  pet!  Was  it  working  hard  at  it's 
psychological  masterpiece?  Anybody'd  think  you  were 
what's-his-name,  who  wrote  'Elektra'!"  She  laughed 
again,  pleasant,  full-throated,  musical  laughter,  that  yet 
cut  her  hearer  to  her  sore  heart. 

"Don't — don't  laugh,  dear,"  she  said  gently.  "I  know 
my  books  are  awful  rubbish,  but " 

Mrs.  Twiss  stared  and  took  another  chocolate. 

"Oh,  darling,"  she  murmured.  "I  didn't  mean  to  hurt 
your  feelings.  We  all  love  your  books.  Well,  you'll  let 
me  have  the  hundred,  won't  you,  pet?  We're  going  to 
name  her  Violet. 

The  little  sad  face  under  the  old-fashioned,  pheasant- 
winged  hat  softened  a  little.  "I'll  do  my  best,  dear,"  she 
said.  "Now  I  must  go.  Give  my  love  to  Moreton." 


CHAPTER  VI 

IT  was  about  a  week  after  Mrs.  Walbridge's  visit  to 
Mrs.  Twiss  that  Griselda  went  to  the  play  with  old 
Mrs.  Wick  and  her  son.  Greatly  to  the  girl's  astonish- 
ment, Mr.  Wick  turned  up  two  or  three  days  after  her 
decided  rejection  of  him,  and  his  manner  had  shown 
nothing  of  the  traditional  depression  of  the  refused 
young  man.  Indeed,  he  seemed  particularly  gay,  and 
had  brought  her  some  sweets — sticky  balls  rolled  in  wax 
paper,  that  he  told  her  were  the  best  sweets  on  earth. 

"My  mother  made  'em,"  he  said.  "She's  great  at 
making  things.  These  ones  are  a  sort  of  nougat.  You 
try  one — you'll  see " 

The  uncouth  looking  sweetmeats  were  indeed  delicious, 
and  the  two  young  people  sat  at  the  top  of  the  stairs 
leading  to  the  garden  (for  it  was  one  of  those  odd,  lost 
summer  days  that  wander  along  through  our  island 
winters  like,  lonely  strayed  children ) ,  and  munched  and 
talked,  and  talked  and  munched,  in  as  friendly  a  way, 
Griselda  thought,  as  if  he  had  never  mentioned  marriage 
to  her. 

"I  don't  like  your  frock,"  he  said  suddenly,  speaking 
with  difficulty,  for  his  mother's  sweets  were  sticky. 
"You're  too  dark  for  blue.  Makes  you  look  yellow." 

"Well,  upon  my  word!"  The  girl  was  full  of  inno- 
cent airs  and  graces ;  little  affectations  blossomed  all  over 
her,  and  perhaps  they  were  only  the  blossom  of  future 
graces.  But  somehow,  this  odd  reporter  person,  as  she 

60 


HAPPY  HOUSE  6l 


called  him  to  her  mother,  clutched  at  these  premature 
flowerets  like  a  black  frost,  and  she  found  herself  being 
as  natural  as  a  little  boy  with  him. 

"You  are  polite,"  she  remarked. 

He  smiled  from  ear  to  ear. 

"No,  I'm  not.  I'm  very  rude,  but  it's  true.  You  ought 
to  wear  green  and  brown,  or  yellow  or  white.  Imagine 
a  buttercup  dressed  in  blue  serge!" 

Everyone  likes  to  talk  about  himself  or  herself,  so  for 
a  moment  Grisel  enjoyed  herself  thoroughly,  as  they 
gravely  discussed  the  different  kinds  of  flowers  that  she 
might  be  said  to  resemble.  Then  he  invited  her  to  go 
to  the  play,  and  when  she  refused  demurely,  he  chuckled 
with  delight. 

"Oh,  now  you  think  I'm  the  ignorant  young  man,"  he 
retorted.  "You  think  I  don't  know  that  you  couldn't  go 
with  me  alone.  (Of  course,  so  far  as  that's  concerned 
you  could — all  the  smart  girls,  dukes'  and  earls'  daugh- 
ters, do) — but  I  have  not  invited  you  to.  My  mother's 
coming  with  us." 

"Your  mother?" 

"Yes.     Naturally  she's  anxious  to  meet  you." 

She  looked  at  him  innocently,  her  eyes  like  black- 
heart  cherries  with  the  sun  on  them. 

"Why  should  your  mother  wish  to  meet  me?" 

"Oh,"  he  answered.  "Don't  you  realise  that  I'm  an 
only  son?" 

"What's  that  got  to  do  with  it?" 

He  looked  at  her  gravely,  his  flexible  lips  steady  as 
iron.  "Most  mothers  want  to  know  the  girl  their  son's 
going  to  marry,  don't  you  think?" 

Before  she  could  help  it,  she  laughed.  "But  her  sons 
aren't  going  to  marry  me." 


62  HAPPY  HOUSE 


"No,  but  her  son  is.  I  am.  Oh,  yes,"  he  went  on 
before  she  could  speak.  "We  shan't  be  married  this 
winter,  of  course,  but  in  the  spring  we  shall.  You  may 
choose  a  nice  month.  It'll  be  a  proud  day  for  you,  my 
dear,  and  jolly  lucky  you'll  be  to  get  me!" 

She  rose  and  refused  another  sweet.  "No  thanks,  we 
must  go  in  now.  I've  got  a  lot  to  do.  My  father's  not 
very  well,  and  I  may  have  to  go  down  to  Torquay  to 
look  after  him  if  he  doesn't  get  better." 

"Miss  Walbridge,"  he  spoke  in  a  voice  that  to  her  was 
quite  new,  and  when  she  turned,  looking  at  him  over  her 
shoulder,"  something  in  the  dignity  of  his  face  forced 
her  to  turn  completely  round  and  wait. 

"Don't  think  me  a  perfect  fool,"  he  said.  "I  can't 
help  teasing  you.  You — you're  so  little  and  so  young. 
What  I'd  like  to  do  would  be  to  lift  you  up  on  my  shoul- 
der and  run  round  and  round  the  garden  with  you,  and 
scare  the  life  out  of  you,  but  I  daren't  do  that,  so  I  have 
to  tease  you.  Besides,  you  know,"  he  added  very  gravely, 
"it  is  true  that  I  love  you,  and  I  mean  you  to  marry  me." 

Mrs.  Walbridge,  who  was  in  the  dining-room  packing 
some  bottles  of  home-made  beef -tea  to  send  to  Torquay, 
could  not  help  overhearing  the  rest  of  this  conversation. 
She  never  forgot  it,  or  the  young  man's  face  as  he  fin- 
ished speaking  to  Griselda,  who  suddenly  seemed  more 
responsible,  more  grown-up  than  her  mother  had  ever 
seen  her. 

"Please  don't  say  anything  more  about  that,  Mr. 
Wick,"  she  said  gently.  "I  like  you  very  much — we  all 
do,  even  my  mother,  who's  so  old-fashioned — but  I  can't 
possibly  marry  you." 

The  four  young  eyes  stared  into  each  other  for  what 


HAPPY  HOUSE  63 


seemed  a  long  time,  and  then  he  drew  back  courteously 
to  let  her  pass. 

"I'll  not  say  anything  more  about  it  for  three  months," 
he  declared.     "I  promise  you  that." 


Thus  the  arrangement  about  going  to  the  play  had 
been  made,  and  when  the  evening  came  Mr.  Wick  drove 
up  in  a  taxi  and  carried  his  prize  off  to  the  box  at  the 
theatre,  where  he  had  already  installed  his  mother. 


When  Grisel  came  home  she  went  up  to  her  mothers 
room,  slipping  out  of  her  frock  and  putting  on  her  moth- 
er's shabby  old  dressing-gown,  that  she  declared  to  be  a 
perfect  disgrace,  and  sat  on  the  foot  of  the  bed  describ- 
ing the  adventures  of  the  evening1. 

"She's  a  perfect  old  dear,  Mum,"  the  girl  declared. 
"Very  large,  not  exactly  fat,  you  know,  but  big.  Very 
little  hair,  brushed  quite  flat,  and  done  up  in  a  tiny 
bun  at  the  back,  and  the  most  beautiful  manners,  like 
some  old-fashioned  duchess.  Like  an  old  duchess  in 
one  of  your  books,  Mum — that  kind — not  like  a  Kve 
one " 

"I  see,"  murmured  Mrs.  Walbridge.  "How  did  you 
like  the  play?" 

"Oh,  it  was  very  pretty.  Mary  Grey  looked  per- 
fectly beautiful.  She's  such  a  dear,  but  I  wish  she  had 
sung.  They  liked  it  awfully,  but  somehow  I  never  un- 
derstand Shakespeare's  plays — never  quite  know  what 
they  are  driving  at,  I  mean.  The  place  was  packed,  and 
I  saw  lots  of  people  I  know.  The  Murchisons  were 
there,  and  Dickie  Scotts,  and  that  awful  Pellaby  woman, 


64  HAPPY  HOUSE 


covered  with  pearls  and  jewels.  Johnny  Holden  came 
up  just  as  we  were  leaving,  and  told  me  that  he  had 
seen  Guy.  He's  only  just  back.  He  said  Guy's  awfully 
fit,  and  has  done  some  very  good  caricatures.  He  says 
there's  going  to  be  an  armistice  as  sure  as  eggs  is  eggs. 
The  Hun  is  a  dead  man  according  to  him.  And,  oh, 
Mother,  you'll  never  guess — Oliver  Wick  went  out  on 
the  28th  of  August,  1914,  and  was  all  through  the  Big 
Push  and  the  retreat  from  Mons.  Fancy  his  never 
telling  us!  Johnny  mentioned  it.  He  was  wounded 
there — during  the  retreat.  One  of  his  fingers  is  quite 
stiff.  I  never  noticed  it,  did  you?" 

Mrs.  Walbridge  shook  her  head.  "No,  I  never  did. 
So  he's  been  out?" 

"Yes,  and  he  only  had  one  leave  all  the  time.  He 
was  invalided  out  last  year — there's  a  bullet  somewhere 
inside  him  still.  His  mother  says  she  thinks  it  must  be 
in  his  brain.  She  does  adore  him,  Mum." 

Mrs.  Walbridge  was  silent,  for  she  envied  this  other 
woman,  not  exactly  her  son,  but  her  love  for  her  son. 
Her  own  boys  were  very  dear  to  her,  but  one  quality 
was  lacking  in  her  love  for  them,  and  that  was  adora- 
tion. For  although  she  was  only  a  fourth-rate  novelist, 
she  had  the  sad  gift  of  unswerving  clear-sightedness, 
and  no  merciful  delusion  blinded  her  when  she  looked 
at  her  own  children. 

Grisel  had  stopped  brushing  her  pretty  hair,  which 
lay  like  two  wings  over  her  young  breast,  framing  her 
little  quick  face,  and  bringing  out  its  vivid  whiteness. 
She  was  sitting  with  the  silver  brush  on  her  knees,  and  in 
her  eyes  brooded  an  unusually  deep  thought. 

"You  like  him,  my  dear,  don't  you?" 

The    girl    started.      "Who?      Oh,    Oliver?      No— I 


HAPPY  HOUSE  65 


mean "    She  rose  and  put  the  brush  on  the  dressing- 
table. 

"How  nice  that  you  call  him  Oliver,"  commented  her 
mother,  in  a  matter-of-fact  voice.  "I  like  him,  too.  I 
think  he's  a  delightful  young  fellow.  So  boyish,  isn't 
he?" 

Grisel  came  to  the  bed,  her  momentary  embarrassment 
scattered  to  the  winds  by  the  sober  sense  of  her  mother's 
words. 

"Yes,  he's  a  dear,"  she  said  simply,  "but  his  mother's 
a  perfect  pet,  and  she's  coming  to  see  us.  You'll  love 
her,  Mum."  At  the  door  she  turned.  "Good-night, 
Mum  darling.  Don't  worry  about  your  old  book.  It's 
sure  to  come  out  all  right.  What  did  you  say  the  name 
of  it  was?" 

"  'Lord  Effingham.' " 

The  girl  stepped  back  in  surprise  at  her  mother's  tone. 
"Why,  good  gracious,  Mum,  you  spoke  as  if  he  were 
a  real  man  and  you  hated  him!  I  hope  he  isn't  one  of 
the  modern  horrors,  like  that  dreadful  man  in  'Reek.' ' 
She  ran  back  to  the  bed  and  gave  her  mother  a  little 
stroke  and  shake.  "I  couldn't  dream  of  allowing  you 
to  write  horrid  modern  books  about  beastly  real  people," 
she  said  protectingly.  Then  she  went  to  bed. 


The  next  morning  a  telegram  arrived  from  Torquay, 
saying  that  Mr.  Walbridge  was  no  better,  and  asking 
his  wife  to  come  down  and  look  after  him.  She  had 
expected  just  such  a  wire  (for  he  was  one  of  those 
people  who  always  become  ill  when  they  are  bored  or 
lonely)  and  she  had  already  arranged  to  send  Grisel 
down. 


66  HAPPY  HOUSE 


The  girl  liked  Torquay  and  had  two  or  three  friends 
there,  and  it  would  be  a  pleasant  change  for  her.  Be- 
sides, her  mother  thought,  if  things  were  going  to  be 
really  bad,  it  would  be  better  to  have  the  children  out 
of  the  way. 

So  Grisel,  much  pleased,  and  not  at  all  worried  about 
her  father,  vrent  off,  and  for  several  days  after  her  de- 
parture Mrs.  Walbridge  worked  uninterruptedly  in  the 
deserted  drawing-room.  The  weather  had  changed,  and 
it  was  intensely  stormy  and  wet,  so  there  was  something 
pleasant  in  the  shut-in  feeling  of  the  firelit  room. 

Paul,  now  the  only  one  at  home,  was,  of  course,  at 
the  bank  all  day,  and  most  evenings  he  either  dined  out 
or  went  out  immediately  after  dinner.  He  was  a  silent 
man,  very  preoccupied  with  his  own  thoughts  and  pos- 
sessed of  the  negative  gift  of  taking  no  interest  whatever 
in  other  people's  affairs.  He  scorned  curiosity  with  all 
his  heart,  and  never  suspected  that  curiosity  is  very  often 
only  an  expression  of  human  interest. 

Of  late,  too,  his  mother  had  noticed  he  had  been  even 
more  silent  and  absent-minded  than  ever,  and  she  won- 
dered if  he  was  having  a  love  affair.  She  dared  not 
ask  him,  however,  and  so  the  long  days  and  longer 
evenings  passed  in  almost  unending  hard  work  for  the 
little  writing  woman,  and  finally  she  arrived  at  a  certain 
amount  of  success  with  the  troublesome  "Lord  Effing- 
ham." 

Her  book  was  entirely  changed.  Such  atmosphere 
as  it  had  ever  had  she  had  destroyed,  and,  very  proud 
of  the  illegitimate  baby  she  had  introduced  into  its  inno- 
cent pages,  she  one  night  packed  up  the  manuscript  and 
ran  out  to  a  greengrocer  in  the  neighbourhood,  where 
lived  an  old  man  who  sometimes  did  errands  for  her. 


HAPPY  HOUSE  67 


Old  Mr.  King  was  at  home,  and  would  be  delighted  to 
go  round  the  next  morning  at  half-past  nine  to  take  the 
very  valuable  parcel  safely  down  to  Messrs.  Lubbock  & 
Payne. 

She  thanked  the  greengrocer's  wife,  who  was  the  old 
man's  daughter,  and,  putting  up  her  umbrella,  went  out 
again  into  the  wet. 

It  was  a  shiny  black  night,  full  of  storm  noises  and 
unceasing  rain,  and  when  she  reached  "Happy  House" 
Mrs.  Walbridge  stood  for  a  moment  under  her  um- 
brella, leaning  against  the  little  green  gate,  where  the 
name  was  now  almost  illegible,  and  looked  about  her, 
breathing  more  freely  in  the  thought  that  the  book  was 
done;  for  good  or  evil;  that  she  had  done  her  best  by 
it,  and  that  if  it  failed,  it  must  just  fail. 

She  felt  more  cheerful  now  that  "Lord  Effingham" 
was  off  her  hands.  Things  must  improve,  she  thought. 

The  political  news  was  much  better;  the  armistice 
might  be  signed  any  day,  and  perhaps  when  Guy  came 
back  he  would,  after  all,  be  helpful  to  her. 

Ferdie  was  better.  She  had  had  a  letter  that  morn- 
ing, and  little  Grisel  was  having  a  happy  time  with  her 
friends.  There  was  to  be  a  dance,  and  she  had  written 
for  her  new  white  satin  frock  to  be  sent  down. 

"I  must  go  to  Swan  &  Edgars  and  get  her  a  new 
pair  of  satin  slippers,"  she  thought,  as  she  went  tip  the 
steps,  and  opened  the  door  with  her  latchkey.  "Fancy 
the  little  minx  dancing  her  last  pair  through  the  other 
night!" 

She  went  down  into  the  kitchen  and  made  herself  a 
cup  of  extra  strong  cocoa  to  drink  in  bed.  Cocoa  in 
bed  with  a  book  is  a  very  cosy  thing. 

The  boys  had  always  thought  her  a  frump,  and  Guy 


68  HAPPY  HOUSE 


in  particular  hated  her  old  black  velvet  evening  gown, 
and,  now  that  he  had  been  in  Paris  and  seen  all  the  smart 
clothes,  he  would  despise  the  black  velvet  gown  more 
than  ever.  If  only  she  could  have  some  kind  of  a  new 
evening  frock.  Grey  would  do.  Iron  grey  would  wear 
almost  as  well  as  black.  She  set  down  her  cup  of  cocoa 
with  a  little  sigh.  Ridiculous  to  think  about  that  kind 
of  thing  when  she  only  had  one  hundred  and  eighty 
pounds  in  the  bank. 

Then  she  read  a  few  pages  of  "Thomas  a  Kempis," 
turned  out  her  light,  and  lay  still  in  the  dark  waiting  for 
sleep. 


CHAPTER  VII 

PAUL'S  room  was  a  large  one  at  the  back  on  the  second 
floor.  It  looked  into  the  elm  tree,  and  was  very  pleasant 
and  quiet. 

A  few  days  after  Mrs.  Walbridge  had  sent  the  manu- 
script of  "Lord  Emngham"  to  her  publishers,  she  was 
in  Paul's  room,  helping  him  hang  a  new  picture  that 
he  had  picked  up  at  a  sale.  His  mother  thought  it  a 
very  ugly  picture;  in  fact,  she  thought  it  not  nice,  but 
she  said  nothing,  for  her  opinion  was  of  no  value  to  him, 
and  she  knew  it. 

It  was  a  sunshiny  day,  and  the  naked  boughs  of  the  old 
tree  stirred  and  made  odd  little  noises  as  the  east  wind 
attacked  it  in  gusts.  The  shadows  of  the  branches 
danced  across  the  dull  green  walls  and  made  the  gleams 
of  light  on  the  picture  glasses  die  and  come  to  life  again 
in  a  way  that  gave  the  large  room  something  the  air 
of  a  glade  in  a  wood. 

Paul,  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  stood  on  a  pair  of  steps 
hammering  a  nail  into  the  exact  spot  in  the  wall  that 
he  had  decided  on  after  long  measurement  and  reflec- 
tion. 

"I  do  hope  you're  wearing  your  thick  Jaegers,  dar- 
ling," his  mother  said,  as  she  took  the  hammer  from  him 
and  held  up  the  picture. 

"Not  yet,"  he  said.  "I'm  going  to  put  them  on  to- 
morrow." He  hung  up  the  picture  and  backed  gravely 
off  the  ladder,  looking  up  at  it,  a  smile  of  pride  and  sat- 

[69 


70  HAPPY  HOUSE 


isfaction  softening-  his  over-delicate,  rather  supercilious 
face.  "A  little  gem,  Mother,  though  you  probably  don't 
think  so/'  he  announced  good-naturedly.  "Bruce 
Collier  wanted  it.  He's  got  a  fine  collection." 

"Bruce  Collier,"  Mrs.  Walbridge  pursed  her  lips 
thoughtfully.  "I've  heard  his  name.  Who  is  he,  Paul  ?" 

'The  chap  who  wrote  'Reek.'  Crichell  was  talking 
about  him  here  one  night  in  the  summer.  There's  the 
book  on  the  table.  He  gave  it  to  me." 

She  picked  the  book  up  and  opened  it.  "What  beau- 
tiful paper,"  she  said  slowly,  "and  I  love  the  print, 
Paul." 

He  nodded.  "Oh,  yes.  Nares  publishes  him.  Now 
I'm  going  to  put  the  Kakemono  here,  Mother."  He 
indicated  a  blank  space  on  the  wall  near  his  writing- 
table.  "Will  you  get  it?  You  won't  be  sorry  to  have 
it  out  of  the  girls'  room,  will  you  ?" 

She  went  obediently  towards  the  door,  and  at  it  she 
turned. 

"You'll  be  surprised,  dear,  but,  do  you  know,  I  have 
got  quite  used  to  those  monkeys,  and  really  like  them 
now!" 

He  looked  up  from  filling  his  pipe  and  smiled  at  her, 
his  narrow  face — a  face  of  a  type  so  often  seen  nowa- 
days in  very  young  men — too  small-featured,  too  clean- 
cut,  too  narrow  in  the  brow,  too  lacking  in  the  big  old 
British  qualities,  both  good  and  bad,  and  yet  full  of 
uncreative  cleverness — lighted  by  whimsical,  not  un- 
unkindly,  astonishment. 

'  'Violet  Walbridge  confesses  to  a  passion  for  Hono- 
bosft  Iccho/  "  he  declaimed,  as  if  quoting  a  possible  head- 
line. "No,  no,  Mother  darling,  that  won't  do.  You 


HAPPY  HOUSE  71 


must  stick  to  Marcus  Stone.  Trot  along  and  get  it, 
there's  a  dear." 

She  trotted  along  and  got  it,  and  brought  it  back, 
carefully  rolled  on  its  stick. 

"Grisel  will  be  sorry  to  find  it  gone,"  she  said,  as  he 
hung  it  on  the  nail  and  let  it  slowly  slide  down  the  wall. 
"She  loves  it." 

"She  loves  it  because  Wick  knew  about  the  artist. 
Imitative  little  monkey,  Grisel." 

His  mother  stared  at  him.  It  was  pn  her  lips  to  say, 
"So  are  you— -so  are  you  an  imitative  monkey,"  for 
she  realised  that  these  new  artistic  tastes  of  his  were  de- 
rived from  some  model  and  not  from  any  instinctive 
search  for  a  peculiar  kind  of  beauty.  Instead  she  only 
said,  referring  to  an  old  pet  name  of  her  own  for  her 
children,  "Yes,  one  of  God's  apelets,  and  so  are  you, 
Paul." 

He  had  backed  to  the  far  side  of  the  room  and  stood 
surveying  the  effect  of  the  Kakemono  with  much  satis- 
faction. 

"Yes,  dear,"  he  murmured,  without  listening  to  her. 
"That's  very  good,  just  there.  The  light  catches  it  just 
right." 

As  he  spoke,  Jessie,  the  maid,  came  in,  still  straighten- 
ing a  hastily  tied-on  cap  and  apron. 

"A  gentleman  downstairs  to  see  you,  sir." 

Paul  nodded. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Crichell!  We're  going  to  the  Grafton  Gal- 
leries together  to  see  that  'Moonlight  in  the  Trenches' 
fellow's  pictures." 

"Please,  Mr.  Paul,  it  ain't  Mr.  Crichell."  Jessie  was 
still  standing  by  the  door. 

"Oh,  who  is  it?" 


72  HAPPY  HOUSE 


"I  don't  knew,  sir.  Not  at  all  a  nice  gentleman.  I 
wouldn't  leave  him  alone  in  the  drorin'-room  if  I  was 
you." 

The  girl  left  the  room,  and  Mrs.  Walbridge  sat  down 
suddenly.  Paul's  face  had  changed,  and  she  was  fright- 
ened. 

"Look  here,  Mother,"  he  said,  "I'm  afraid  it's  a  brute 
of  a  fellow  on  business.  I  told  him  I'd  kill  him  if  he 
came  here,  but" — the  young  man  waved  his  long,  nervous 
hands  helplessly — "he's  come,  you  see." 

Her  big  hollow  eyes  were  fixed  on  him  with  a  strained, 
unwinking  stare. 

"Oh,  Paul,"  she  whispered,  "what  is  it?" 

He  moved  irresolutely  towards  the  door,  came  back, 
took  up  his  coat  and  then  threw  it  on  to  the  divan  under 
the  Rowlandson  "Horse  Fair." 

"Look  here,  Mother,"  he  said,  "I  must  get  him  out 
of  the  house.  Suppose  you  go  and  tell  him — tell  him 
that  I'm  not  in.  Perhaps  you'd  better  say  that  I'm 
out  of  town." 

"Is  it  a  bill  ?"  she  asked  tonelessly,  without  moving. 

"No — that  is — not  exactly.  The  fact  is,  it's  a  money- 
lender. Alfred  Brock  put  me  on  to  a  good  thing  in  the 
City,  and  it — it  went  wrong  somehow,  so  I  borrowed 
fifty  pounds  of  this  chap — Somerset's  his  name — and 

I But  go  and  tell  him  I'm  out.     I'll  explain  it  all 

to  you  afterwards,"  he  broke  off  nervously. 

She  walked  to  the  window  and  stood  looking  out,  and 
he  thought  she  was  crying. 

"Don't,  Mother,  please  don't,"  he  exclaimed.  "It's 
quite  all  right.  I  shall  have  the  money  next  week,  and 
the  brute's  just  got  to  wait,  that's  all." 

But  she  was  not  crying,  and  that  was  not  why  she 


HAPPY  HOUSE  73 


had  turned  her  face  from  him.  And  what  she  saw, 
oddly  enough,  as  she  looked  out  into  the  empty  boughs 
of  the  elm  tree,  was  the  face  of  old  Mrs.  Wick,  whose 
picture  young  Wick  carried  in  his  pocket,  and  had  once 
showji  her.  "What  a  happy  woman,  what  a  happy 
woman!"  she  was  saying  under  her  breath.  After  a 
pause  she  turned  round. 

"I'll  not  say  you're  out,  Paul,  and  I  won't  say  you're 
away.  I'll  see  the  man,  and  I'll  tell  him  you'll  pay  him 
next  week." 

Across  his  white  face  flashed  the  wild  impatience  of 
the  man  who,  knowing  that  there  is  for  his  ailment  only 
one  remedy  and  that  a  desperate  one,  is  offered  some 
homely,  perfectly  inefficacious  substitute. 

"Don't  be  a "  he  broke  out.  But  she  went  down- 
stairs without  heeding  him. 

The  man  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  drawing-room, 
looking  round  at  the  homely  furniture.  Being  what 
she  was,  Mrs.  Walbridge  had,  of  course,  expected  a 
florid  and  bediamonded  Jew,  instead  of  which  the  man 
was  a  stocky,  red-faced,  snub-nosed  Englishman,  who 
approached  to  her  innocent  ideal  of  a  prize-fighter. 

"Good  morning." 

At  her  voice  he  whirled  round  and  about  awkwardly. 

"Sorry  to  trouble  you,  m'm,  I'm  sure,"  he  began, 
grasping  the  situation  with  what  to  her  seemed  marvel- 
lous quickness.  "Young  gentleman  had  better  come 
down  hisself." 

"My  son "  she  began. 

But  he  waved  her  into  silence  with  a  small,  roughcast 
looking  hand. 

"No  good  sayin*  he's  out  of  town,  ma'am,  or  even 
spendin'  the  day  on  the  river,  'cos  he  ain't." 


74  HAPPY  HOUSE 


Mrs.  Walbridge  looked  at  him,  a  slow  wave  of  under- 
standing creeping  to  her  brain. 

"I  wasn't  going  to  tell  you  that  my  son  is  out,  or 
away,"  she  returned  quietly.  "He's  upstairs.  He's  ex- 
tremely sorry,  but  he  will  not  be  able  to  pay  you  your 
— your  little  account  until  next  week." 

The  man  stared  at  her  in  honest  surprise,  and  then 
his  red  face  melted  into  rather  pleasant  curves  of  irre- 
pressible laughter. 

"Well,  I'll  be— I'll  be  blowed!"  he  cried,  slapping  his 
knee.  "Did  he  send  you  down  to  tell  me  that?  My 
governor  will  laugh  at  that." 

They  talked,  this  ill-assorted  pair,  for  about  half  an 
hour,  and  then  the  man  left  the  house  very  quietly, 
bowing  at  the  door  with  real  respect  to  the  lady  who 
had  so  amused  him.  He  had  heard  of  Violet  Walbridge 
all  his  life,  and  vaguely  remembered  having  read 
"Queenie's  Promise"  when  he  was  about  sixteen,  and 
had  the  mumps,  and  to  think  that  she  should  be  like 
this!  Very  much  "blowed"  and  inclined  to  being 
damned,  as  he  told  his  wife  later,  he  disappeared  out 
of  Mrs.  Walbridge's  life. 

She  went  upstairs,  and  found  Paul  walking  up  and 
down  the  room,  smoking  cigarettes  furiously,  his  neg- 
lected pipe  on  the  mantelpiece. 

"Lord,  Mother,  what  an  age  you've  been!"  he  cried, 
petulantly.  "Was  it  Somerset  himself?" 

"No,  this  man's  name  was  Green.  He  tells  me,  Paul, 
that  they  have  applied  to  you  several  times;  that  the 
money  was  due  last  week." 

He  nodded  sulkily.  "Yes,  it  was.  If  Alfred  Brock 
hadn't  been  a  fool,  it  wouldn't  have  happened.  Brock 
shall  never  see  a  penny  of  my  money  again." 


HAPPY  HOUSE  75 


"He  told  me,"  his  mother  went  on,  her  hand  on  the 
door  handle,  "that  he  knew  you  had  a  collection  of 
pictures  and  things,  and  he — he  was  going  to  make  you 
sell  some  of  them." 

"The  swine!  Poor  mother,"  he  added  carelessly,  "a 
nasty  half  hour  for  you,  I'm  afraid.  What  did  you  say 
to  him  to  make  him  go?" 

Mrs.  Walbridge  looked  curiously  round  the  room  as 
if  she  saw  it  for  the  first  time.  The  Rowlandson,  the 
Kakemono,  the  exquisite  little  Muirhead,  the  French 
pastel  that  shocked  her;  the  beautiful  adjustable  reading- 
chair,  with  its  lectern-like  bookrest;  the  fourteenth  cen- 
tury Persian  prayer  rug;  the  odds  and  ends  of  good 
china  on  the  mantelpiece.  All  these  treasures,  so  dear 
to  Paul,  that  she,  in  her  innocence,  had  regarded  as 
inexpensive  whims,  had  received  a  new  value  through 
the  odd  medium  of  Mr.  Green. 

"I  didn't  say  much  to  him,  Paul,"  she  answered 
slowly.  "I — I  paid  him." 

She  went  out  and  closed  the  door.  The  young  man 
took  a  hasty  step  towards  it,  then  hesitated  and  went 
back  to  his  arm-chair.  It  was  jolly  decent  of  her.  He'd 
thank  her  and  give  her  a  kiss  for  it  at  tea  time.  He 
must  think  of  something  graceful  and  appropriate  to  say. 
Meantime  he  was  chilly  and  uncomfortable,  so,  leaning 
forward,  he  lit  a  match  and  set  fire  to  the  coal- 
heaped  grate.  "]olly  decent  of  mother,"  he  thought, 
leaning  back  to  watch  the  glowing  of  the  fire.  "Those 
absurd  books  of  hers  really  are  pretty  useful,  after  all." 


It  was  pleasant  that  evening  to  have  a  long  letter  from 
Grisel,  and  Mrs.  Walbridge,  who  had  been  busy  since 


76  HAPPY  HOUSE 


Mr.  Green's  departure  in  getting  off  a  basket  of  beef- 
tea,  home-made  potted  meat,  and  red-currant  jelly,  to 
Torquay,  and  who  had  been  bound  by  an  old  promise 
to  take  tea  with  poor  Caroline,  found  the  letter  when 
she  came  in,  and  as  Paul,  after  his  hurried  thanks,  had 
gone  out  for  the  rest  of  the  day  and  evening,  she  changed 
into  her  warm  dressing-gown,  and  settled  down  to  her 
supper  tray  in  the  drawing-room,  with  a  pint  of  ale  and 
a  nicely  browned  sausage,  and  Grisel's  letter. 

Grisel  wrote  a  peculiarly  delightful  hand,  each  letter 
small  and  well-shaped,  and  nearly  as  clear  as  print.  She 
was  also  fluent  and  had  a  certain  gift  for  description, 
so  that  her  letters  were  a  real  treat  to  her  mother.  This 
one,  written  on  several  sheets  of  beautiful  pale  grey 
paper  with  "Conroy  Hall"  in  one  corner,  promised  to  be 
an  unusually  delightful  one,  for  it  contained,  she  saw, 
glancing  through  it,  a  full  description  of  the  ball  at  which 
her  daughter  had  worn  the  new  satin  shoes  she  had  sent 
her  from  Swan  &  Edgars. 

"Darling  Mum,"  Griselda  began,  "I  haven't  written 
for  several  days  because  I've  been  having  such  a  good 
time  that  there  wasn't  a  minute  for  anything  except 
f rivaling!  You'll  gather  from  this  that  the  poor  old 
Dad  is  better,  and  his  headaches  have  gone.  I  don't 
think  it  was  anything  but  liver  myself.  And  he's  been 
hob-nobbing  with  some  old  friends  who  have  turned  up 
at  one  of  the  big  hotels — /  forget  which. 

"I  came  here  the  day  before  yesterday  to  stay  with 
Elsie,  and  I've  never  had  such  a  good  time  in  my  life. 
Fred  has  put  an  awful  lot  of  money  into  the  place  and 
furnished  it  splendidly,  so  it's  really  wonderful.  He's 
like  a  little  white  rat,  it's  no  good  concealing  that,  but 


HAPPY  HOUSE  77 


then  he's  like  such  a  very  NICE  white  rat,  and  he  adores 
Elsie,  and  thinks  nothing's  too  good  for  her.  They've 
lived  like  fighting  cocks  all  through  the  war.  How 
they  get  the  food  I  can't  imagine!  Of  course,  they 
make  their  own  butter,  and  have  swindled  the  Gov- 
ernment like  anything,  which,  of  course,  is  great  fun. 

''Elsie  has  just  had  a  lot  of  new  clothes  from,  Lon- 
don, and  really  looks  a  dream,  although  she's  as  fat  as 
a  little  pig.  Of  course,  they've  done  a  lot  of  enter- 
taining of  wounded  for  years  now,  otherwise  I  don't 
think  they  would  have  known  there  is  a  war.  Elsie 
says  she's  awfully  glad  there's  no  Vere  de  Vere  blood 
in  Fred,  or  he  would  have  minded  things  more.  He 
really  is  a  typical  nouveau  riche  out  of  a  novel  (not 
one  of  your  novels,  darling). 

"Did  I  tell  you  how  glad  I  was  that  you've  got  'Lord 
Effingham'  into  sliape?  It'll  be  a  relief  to  your  poor 
mind.  I  found  'From  Sunlight  to  Shadow '  in  the  li- 
brary, and  have  been  reading  it,  and  I  think  it's  per- 
fectly sweet.  I  really  did  enjoy  it  very  much.  It  re- 
minded me  of  Rosa  N.  Carey.  How  I  used  to  love  her 
books  when  I  was  a  kid! 

"We  have  no  men-servants  here,  but  Fred's  going 
to  get  a  dozen  or  so  as  soon  as  the  Armistice  is  signed. 
Meantime  there  are  swarms  of  lovely  footmanettes, 
too  pretty  for  words,  in  violet  frocks  and  lace  caps  and 
aprons.  They  all  look  as  if  George  Grossmith  had 
drilled  them,  somehow.  One  rather  expects  them  to 
burst  out  into  song,  but  they  don't. 

"Well,  the  ball  was  a  great  success.  I'm  writing 
in  bed.  It's  after  lunch.  We  danced  till  after  five, 
and  I  was  such  a  belle,  Mum!  AH  the  girls  down  here 
seem  to  be  six  foot  tall,  and  many  of  them  have  that 


78  HAPPY  HOUSE 


new  uniform-walk — I'm  sure  serving  in  different  corps 
made  the  women's  feet  all  spread;  they  are  big  and 
thick  about  the  ankles,  too — so  I  appeared  as  the  old- 
fashioned  Christmas  pantomime  fairy,  done  in  white 
and  gold.  That's  what  Fred  said.  My  frock  really 
was  as  good  as  anybody's,  you  darling.  Hundreds  of 
beautiful  youths  rolled  up  to  contend  for  the  honour 
of  a  dance.  It  really  was  fun  after  the  over-femaled 
parties  we  have  been  to  lately,  and  I  felt  like  Queenie, 
or  that  girl  in  'Touchstones,' — the  cruel  one  who 
broke  hearts.  Oh,  Mother  darling,  what  a  noodle  you 
are  not  to  know  that  ifs  the  man  who  does  the  heart- 
breaking nowadays! 

"Lady  Sybil  Ross  was  here  with  her  twins.  They 
looked  just  like  partridge  eggs,  they're  so  speckly,  but 
they're  nice  girls;  but  they  treated  me  as  if  I  was  a  lit- 
tle doll  of  some  kind,  as  if  they  were  surprised  that  I 
could  talk  and  walk,  being  so  small  as  I  am.  Fanny 
Ross  has  been  engaged  three  times,  and  each  time  the 
man  has  been  killed  at  the  front.  Isn't  it  awful?  But 
I  couldn't  help  laughing.  There  didn't  seem  to  be  any 
reason  why  she  should  stop  being  engaged  to  one  after 
the  other  for  ever,  and  it  doesn't  seem  to  hurt  her  in 
the  least. 

"Father  came  last  night,  of  course,  and  you  would 
have  been  proud  of  him;  he  looked  such  a  beautiful 
old  pet.  Of  course,  his  diet  and  the  water  wagon  have 
done  wonders  for  his  looks.  His  eyes  are  as  clear  as  a 
child's — or  were  the  first  part  of  the  evening,  but 
rather  fell  off  towards  the  end  (off  the  water  wagon, 
I  mean!)  Of  course,  he  was  quite  all  right,  you  know, 
but  he  was  very  genial  and  his  eyes  a  bit  swimmy. 
Poor  old  Dad. 


HAPPY  HOUSE  79 


"Did  I  tell  you  that  Clara  Cric hell's  here?  She's 
staying  with  her  mother,  who  has  taken  a  house,  and 
she  and  Dad  had  the  time  of  their  lives  together.  She's 
very  pretty,  but  towards  the  end  of  the  evening  she 
looked  rather  like  a  squashed  tomato,  I  thought.  Seri- 
ously, I  think  she's  quite  crazy  about  father.  I'm  so 
glad  you're  old-fashioned,  darling,  and  that  I  don't 
have  to  chaperon  you  too.  A  frisky  young  mother  is 
an  awful  responsibility  for  a  girl,  and  I  should  hate  to 
have  to  ask  anyone's  intentions  about  my  Mamma! 

"I've  just  had  the  most  scrumptious  lunch — heav- 
enly sweetbreads  in  little  paper  boats,  and  eggs  done  in 
some  wonderful  French  way,  and  grape-fruit  salad, 
and  a  sweet  little  carafe  like  a  scent-bottle,  full  of  some 
divine  white  wine.  I  love  having  my  meals  in  bed, 
and  I  adore  having  a  maid  to  look  after  me.  If  I 
marry  a  rich  man,  never  again  as  long  as  I  live  will  I 
put  on  my  stockings  myself,  I  swear  it! 

"Well,  I  went  to  supper  with  an  awfully  nice  boy 
(I  forget  his  name),  who  urged  me  to  marry  him  and 
share  his  pension  as  a  2nd  Lieutenant.  I've  danced 
my  new  shoes  to  ribbons- — war  satin,  of  course — and 
the  next  evening  frock  I  have  must  be  black,  darling. 
Lots  of  girls  younger  than  I  are  wearing  black,  and 
it's  so  becoming. 

"I  had  a  ridiculous  present  from  Oliver  yesterday — 
four  beautiful  giant  kippers  tied  up  in  blue  ribbon. 
tOf  course,  he  thought  I  was  at  Mrs.  Bishop's,  but 
'wasn't  he  a  goose  to  send  me  kippers? 

"By  the  ^vay,  I've  a  serious  beau — a  most  charming 
'old  man,  Sir  John  Barclay.  He's  perfectly  delightful. 
^Quite  old  and  frightfully  rich.  Snow-white  hair  and 
the  most  lovely  tenor  voice.  He's  staying  in  the  house, 


8o  HAPPY  HOUSE 


and,  though  I  say  it  as  shouldn't,  is  my  slave.  He 
sang  'The  Banks  of  Allan  Water '  the  other  day,  and 
made  me  cry.  Such  a  sweet,  young-sounding  voice  it 
is.  He  sent  me  the  loveliest  flowers  this  morning. 
Really,  it  looks  very  much  as  if  he  ivas  going  to  offer 
himself  and  his  worldly  goods  to  me!  1  hope  he 
doesn't,  because  he  really  is  a  dear,  and  he  looks  as  if 
he  might  mind  being  hurt. 

"How  are  you,  dearest?  You  must  enjoy  being  all 
alone.  Do  eat  enough;  don't  live  on  toast  and  tea, 
and  don't  let  Jessie  forget  your  hot  bottle. 

"Dearest  love  to  you, 

"GRISEL. 

"P.  S. — When  you  send  me  a  new  pair  of  slippers, 
please  send  me  a  pair  of  stockings  too,  as  there  are 
simply  no,  soles  left  in  my  last  pair." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

MR.  WICK,  on  his  way  to  "Happy  House"  one  very  wet 
afternoon,  in  the  beginning  of  November,  .gave  way  to 
pleasant  dreams.  He  knew  that  the  lady  of  his  affec- 
tions was  still  in  Torquay,  for  he  had  had  a  letter  from 
her,  but  she  had  bidden  him  go  and  see  her  mother,  and 
collect  one  or  two  books  that  she  wanted,  and  send  them 
down  to  her. 

"I'm  rather  worried  about  Mum,"  she  had  written, 
"without  any  particular  reason.  I  wish  you'd  go  and 
take  a  look  at  her  and  let  me  know  if  everything's  all 
right." 

Mr.  Wick,  who  had  had  a  serious  conflict  with  his 
chief  a  few  days  before,  and  come  out  with  streaming 
colours,  was  feeling  very  happy,  in  spite  of  the  pouring 
rain  and  the  dreadful  uniformity  of  the  wet-November- 
afternoon  faces  about  him.  He  was  one  step  farther  on 
towards  his  goal,  which  was  nothing  less  than  becoming 
a  great  newspaper  proprietor  and  running  the  political 
world  from  a  swivel  chair  somewhere  in  Fleet  Street. 
And  it  was  very  sweet  to  him  to  be  sent  in  this  intimate 
way  by  Griselda  Walbridge  to  inspect  and  report  on 
her  mother. 

And  now,  under  the  shelter  of  his  dripping  umbrella, 
he  was  finishing  a  book,  which  he  had  read  conscien- 
tiously, though  with  incredible  swiftness.  Since  his 
meeting  with  Griselda,  he  had  taken  the  trouble  to  look 
through  half  a  dozen  of  Mrs.  Walbridge's  books,  and 

81 


82  HAPPY  HOUSE 


could  see  (for  he  was  unconsciously  a  very  good  critic) 
what  the  secret  of  their  success  was. 

"Very  slow,"  he  explained  to  his  mother.  "Nothing 
much  happens  and  there  are  the  same  people  in  all  of 
them,  with  different  names.  She  always  has  pretty 
names  for  the  girls,  and  the  men  are  usually  swells. 
Kind  of  book  a  woman  could  read  while  she's  knitting, 
or  boiling  the  clothes,  or  bathing  the  baby,  without  either 
losing  the  thread  of  the  story  or  scamping  her  work." 

But  this  new  book,  he  realised,  had  lost  that  easy 
quality.  There  were  pages  of  undigested  realism  scat- 
tered through  it;  several  of  the  stock  characters  were 
missing.  There  was,  for  instance,  no  faithful  old  family 
butler,  no  sinuous  foreign  adventuress.  (The  innocence 
of  Violet  Walbridge's  adventuresses  was  prodigious,  it 
spite  of  the  desperate  epithets  she  showered  on  them) 
and  there  was  a  superfluous  infant,  nameless,  and  as 
unnecessary  to  the  story  as  it  was  to  his  mother,  whose 
presence  was  as  inappropriate  as  that  of  Gaby  Deslys  at 
a  Quaker  meeting. 

"That  baby  puts  the  lid  on,"  the  young  man  thought, 
stuffing  the  book  in  his  mackintosh  pocket  and  feeling 
in  the  other  pocket  for  the  safety  of  the  treasure  he  had 
put  there.  "She'll  bust  the  whole  show  if  she  goes  on 
like  that.  She  can't  do  the  new  stuff,  and  her  old  patients 
won't  stand  such  strong  doses  as  this." 

As  he  got  off  the  bus  his  mind  was  engaged  with  won- 
dering whether  Mrs.  Walbridge  had  any  fortune  apart 
from  her  pen. 

"Strikes  me  that  Paul  is  something  of  an  objet  de 
luxe"  he  reflected,  as  he  turned  off  Albany  Street.  Bank 
clerks  oughtn't  to  go  messing  about  with  stockbrokers, 
and  that  fellow  Brock  is  a  bad  egg.  When  I've  married 


HAPPY  HOUSE  83 


Griselda,  pretty  pet,  we  shan't  have  very  much  to  do 
with  Master  Paul.  The  other  one,  Guy,  the  soldier, 
looks  a  decent  lad.  I  like  that  photograph." 

As  he  reached  the  house  his  pace  slackened  and  over 
his  shrewd  journalistic  face  came  an  odd  softening  as 
if  for  a  moment  his  very  thoughts  had  stopped  using 
slang.  The  green  swing  gate  with  its  half  effaced  words 
touched  him  anew.  The  more  he  knew  of  Mrs.  Wai- 
bridge  and  her  family,  the  greater  seemed  the  pathos  of 
the  name  of  her  house. 

"I  suppose  she  named  it  that  years  ago  when  she  was 
young,"  he  thought  gently.  "I  suppose  she  kept  the 
paint  fresh  at  first,  and  then  later  it  didn't  seem  worth 
while." 

A  very  modern  product  was  this  Oliver  Wick — the 
kind  of  a  man  that  could  not  have  existed  a  quarter  of 
a  century  ago,  when  young  men  were  either  gentlemen 
or  cads,  as  the  saying  went.  He  had  set  out  to  make  a 
great  fortune  and  he  was  going  to  make  it.  He  was 
conscious  to  his  finger-tips  of  his  powers  and  his  gift 
of  observation  and  of  managing  inferior  minds.  His 
habitual  language  was  a  jargon  composed  of  journalistic, 
sporting,  and  society  slang,  yet  his  mind  was  open  to 
the  most  tender  impressions,  his  sharp  little  eyes  always 
ready  to  soften  to  a  tear,  and  he  loved  and  read  poetry 
with  avidity. 

Now  he  stood  for  a  moment  in  the  pouring  rain, 
touched  to  the  quick  by  the  pathos  of  the  shabby  little 
gate  of  the  unsuccessful,  overworked  old  novelist. 


He  found  Mrs.  Walbridge  sitting  by  the  fire  in  her 
expressionless  drawing-room,  reading.      She  was  so  en- 


84  HAPPY  HOUSE 


grossed  in  her  book  that,  after  a  hurried  greeting,  she 
at  once  began  to  talk  of  it. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Wick,"  she  cried,  forgetting  to  ask  him  to 
sit  down,  which,  however,  he  promptly  did,  "have  you 
read  this?" 

He  glanced  at  the  book.  "Yes,  it's  the  book  Mr. 
Crichell  talked  about  that  night  at  dinner  here."  After 
a  second  he  added  a  little  awkwardly,  "I — I  wouldn't 
read  it  if  I  were  you,  Mrs.  Walbridge." 

She  closed  the  book  and  drew  back  in  her  chair  with 
a  little  flush. 

"I — I've  nearly  finished  it.  Everyone's  been  talk- 
ing about  it,  and  I  found  it  in  my  son's  room." 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment,  for  he  did  not  know 
quite  what  to  say  to  her,  to  this  old  lady  whose  literary 
stockpot  produced  such  a  harmless  and  uniform  br,ew. 

"Reek"  was  not  important  enough  to  be  called  strong 
meat;  it  was  just  a  thoroughly  nasty  book  whose  author 
dwelt  lovingly  on  obscene  side-issues  of  ordinary  life, 
and  in  whose  three  hundred  odd  pages  of  closely  printed 
matter  there  was  not  a  word,  nor  even  a  suggestion  that 
could  help  or  even  cheer  for  a  moment  any  conceivable 
reader. 

"Disgusting  rubbish,"  he  declared  after  a  moment. 
"My  old  mother  read  the  first  chapter  and  marched  down 
with  it  in  the  tongs  and  put  it  in  the  kitchen  fire."  He 
chuckled  at  the  vision  of  the  old  lady's  slow  progress 
down  the  narrow  passage,  with  the  tongs  held  straight 
out  before  her.  "That  showed  my  young  sister  Jenny 
what  she  thought  of  it!"  He  paused  and  then  went  on 
very  quickly,  with  a  little  flicker  of  colour  in  his  thin, 
white  face,  "You  won't  let  Grisel  read  it?" 


HAPPY  HOUSE  85 


Mrs.  Walbridge  shuddered.  "Dear  me,  no.  Not  that 
she  would  understand  it,"  she  added  slowly. 

There  was  a  pause  and  the  young  man  watched  the 
firelight  playing  over  the  hollowed,  haggard  face  with 
the  deeply-lined  white  brow,  and  the  tired  violet  eyes.  It 
came  to  him  suddenly  how  very  pretty  she  must  have 
been  in  her  youth — her  youth,  so  long  ago,  and  before 
he  was  born  (he  was  twenty-six).  And  then  she  said 
slowly,  in  a  hesitating  voice: 

"It's  such  a  stupid  book.  It's  so  badly  put  together 
and  the  people  aren't  real." 

If  a  six  months'  old  baby  had  sat  up  in  its  cradle  and 
quoted  Plato  to  him  the  young  journalist  could  not  have 
been  more  surprised.  That  Violet  Walbridge,  of  all 
people  on  earth,  should  criticise  the  construction  of  a 
novel  by  Bruce  Collier!  Bruce  Collier,  who  was  un- 
doubtedly the  head  of  the  new  school  of  writers,  and 
about  whom  most  serious  critics  wrote  columns  in  the 
morning  papers.  He  stared  at  her  in  frank,  almost 
open-mouthed  astonishment,  and  she  went  on  without 
apparently  noticing  his  emotion,  and  speaking  modestly, 
but  with  a  sureness  that  he  had  never  observed  in  her 
before. 

"You  see,  if  S within  Cleveland  had  been  in  the  ruins 
that  time — you  know — he  could  not  possibly  have  writ- 
ten that  letter  to  Sophia." 

"Why  couldn't  he?"  stammered  Wick. 

For  a  few  minutes  he  listened  to  her  soft,  rather  un- 
modulated voice,  as  she  unfolded  her  ideas  to  him,  and 
then  suddenly  he  jumped  up  and  slapped  his  knee. 

"By  Jove,"  he  shouted,  "you're  right,  you're  right, 
Mrs.  Walbridge,  and  not  one  of  them — the  critics  I  mean 
— has  seen  it !" 


86  HAPPY  HOUSE 


He  tramped  up  and  down  the  room,  talking  rapidly, 
brandishing  his  arms  in  a  characteristically  ungraceful, 
but  expressive  way. 

"Why  don't  you  write  an  article  about  it?  I'll  make 
my  chief  print  it  in  one  of  his  decent  papers.  Not  that 
— not  that,"  he  broke  off  stammering  hopelessly,  "Round 
the  Fire  isn't  very  good  in  its  way,  you  know — but 
I  mean  in  Cosmos  or  The  Jupiter." 

Mrs.  Walbridge  laughed  softly.  "Don't  apologise 
for  Round  the  Fire"  she  said.  "I  think  I  know  exactly 
what  it  is." 

He  sat  down  again.  The  wind  was  whipping  against 
the  window  with  a  delightful  crackling  noise.  The  cor- 
ner by  the  homely  hearth  in  the  dim,  inexpressive  draw- 
ing-room was  very  pleasant  in  its  way,  and  he  liked, 
he  very  greatly  liked,  the  old-fashioned  lady  in  the 
shabby  grey  gown — the  lady  whom,  if  he  had  to  stop' 
the  stars  in  their  courses  to  accomplish  it,  was  going 
to  be  his  mother-in-law.  He  had  always  liked  Mrs. 
Walbridge;  he  had  always  known  that  she  held  quali- 
ties that  in  a  mother-in-law  would  be  shining  ones,  but 
she  had  a  personality  a  little  too  like  this  drawing-room 
of  hers,  too  like  the  old  mirror  that  hung  over  the  man- 
telpiece and  was  a  little  cloudy,  a  little  obscure,  and 
now,  behold,  something  had  breathed  on  the  mirror  and 
it  had  cleared!  Like  a  flash  he  saw  the  future.  Him- 
self England's  greatest  newspaper  king,  in  a  great,  fine, 
romantic  old  house  somewhere — St.  James's  Square  for 
choice,  failing  that,  Manchester  Square  might  do — and 
by  his  side  was  his  lovely  little  blackest  white  girl,  and 
beside  her,  in  subdued  grey  velvet  and  lace,  the  perfect 
mother-in-law,  perfect  because,  not  only  had  she  been 
capable  of  producing  a  wife  fit  for  the  greatest  man 


HAPPY  HOUSE  87 


in  England,  and  of  being  herself  gently  and  quietly  and 
modestly  impressive,  but  she  possessed  that  great  bless- 
ing to  a  man  in  the  position  that  he  would  be  in,  a 
keenly  critical  mind,  and  the  mind  would  be,  he  felt,  in 
a  way  his,  because  he  had  discovered  it.  He  was  sure 
that  no  one  in  her  household  or  among  her  friends  even 
suspected  Mrs.  Walbridge  of  such  an  astonishing  pos- 
session. 

"Look  here,"  he  said  at  the  end  of  half  an  hour  or  so, 
when  they  had  discussed  Mr.  Collier's  rather  putrescent 
masterpiece  pretty  thoroughly,  "I  suppose  Grisel's  told 
you  that  I  mean  to  marry  her?" 

"She's  told  me  that  you'd  asked  her." 

"Oh,  that's  nothing,"  he  waved  his  hand  impatiently, 
"asking  her,  I  mean.  I  have  asked  her  two  or  three 
times,  just  for  the  sake  of  form,  you  know.  But  she's 
got  to  do  it  sooner  or  later.  I'm  in  no  hurry." 

"Dear  me,"  murmured  his  hostess,  a  little  frightened 
by  the  novelty  of  his  point  of  view. 

"Yes.  You  mustn't  think  me  cheeky  or — dashing, 
you  know,"  he  protested  gravely.  "I'm  not  really.  I 
only  mention  it  now  to  you  so  that  you  would  under- 
stand what  I'm  going  to  say." 

"Yes?"  She  spoke  very  gently,  and  her  eyes  were 
kind  and  benign. 

"I  was  going  to  ask  you,"  he  said,  his  manner  suddenly 
changing  to  one  that  impressed  her,  unconsciously  to 
both  of  them.  "I  was  going  to  ask  you  if  you  don't 
think  you  could  do  something  to  modernise  your  style 
a  little.  Just  from  the  business  point  of  view,  I  mean." 

He  saw  her  wince,  but  kept  on,  with  benevolent  ruth- 
lessness. 

"I've  been  reading  over  some  of  your  books  since  I 


88  HAPPY  HOUSE 


met  you,  and  I  like  'em,  and  I  quite  see  the  reason  for 
their  popularity."  He  broke  off  shortly,  and  asked  her, 
his  head  cocked  on  one  side,  his  lips  pursed  fiercely: 
"How  are  your  sales  now,  compared  to  what  they  were, 
say,  ten  years  ago?" 

Mrs.  Walbridge  took  up  the  poker  and  bent  over  the 
fire.  He  knew  she  was  doing  it  to  hide  her  face,  and 
moved  slightly  so  that  he  could  keep  on  looking  at  her, 
for  he  meant  to  have  the  truth,  and  knew  that  this  truth- 
ful lady  would  not  hesitate  to  lie  to  him  on  this  occasion. 

"About  the  same,  I  think,"  she  said  in  an  undertone, 
poking  the  fire  destructively. 

He  took  the  poker  out  of  her  hand,  and  by  pointing 
it  at  her,  forced  her  slowly  back  into  her  chair. 

"Oh,  come  now,"  he  protested.  "Honour  bright — 
man  to  man,  you  know — business " 

There  was  a  pause,  after  which  she  said :  "Well,  then, 
if  you  put  it  like  that,  no!  my  sales  have  been  growing 
less  for  some  years  now,  slowly,  until — until  quite  lately. 
My  last  book  was  really  almost  a  failure.  Don't,"  she 
added,  clasping  her  thin  hands  and  bending  forward 
a  little,  "don't  mention  this  to  Grisel,  will  you?  They 
none  of  them  know.  I — I  didn't  like  to  worry  them." 

The  young  man  rose  and  walked  to  the  window,  say- 
ing: "Oh,  hell!"  under  his  breath. 

"Of  course  I  won't  tell  Grisel,"  he  almost  shouted 
from  between  the  lace  curtains;  "but  doesn't  your  hus- 
band know?" 

"Oh,  no — no.  They  none  of  them  do.  It  would  only 
worry  them,  you  know." 

"It  must  worry  you,  doesn't  it?" 

Neither  of  them  noticed  that  the  young  man,  who 
might  so  well  have  been  one  of  her  younger  children, 


HAPPY  HOUSE  89 


was  behaving  quite  as  if  he  were  what  he  had  destined 
himself  to  be,  a  powerful  and  experienced  king  of  jour- 
nalism. And  she,  who  had  written  books  while  he  was 
crawling  on  his  nursery  floor,  sat  before  him  with  folded 
hands,  answering  his  questions  with  the  simplicity  and 
lack  of  reserve  of  a  child.  For  once  he  had  broken  her 
barriers  down,  he  realised  how  the  poor  thing  was  re- 
lieved and  glad  to  talk  about  her  troubles. 

Thus  it  came  that  she  told  him  all  about  that  dreadful 
interview  with  Messrs.  Lubbock  &  Payne,  and  of  her 
struggles  with  "Lord  Effingham." 

"I've  modernised  it,"  she  said,  with  hopefulness  that 
made  him  want  to  cry,  "but  it  didn't  seem  very  good 
to  me.  But  then  I  don't  suppose  one's  ever  a  very  good 
judge  of  one's  own  work " 

"Then  one  ought  to  be,"  he  thrust  in  brutally.  "Every 
man  and  every  woman  ought  to  be  the  best  judge  of  his 
or  her  work.  Any  other  kind  of  talk's  nonsense.  You 
ought  to  know  your  best  book.  Don't  you?  Because 
if  you  don't,  I  can  tell  you." 

She  trembled  as  she  looked  up  at  him.  "I  know  you're 
going  to  say  'Queenie's  Promise,'  "  she  said  feebly. 

He  shook  his  head.  "Well,  it  isn't,  then.  It's  the  'Un- 
der Secretary.'  I  read  that  through  from  start  to  finish 
in  the  Underground  the  other  day,  and  it's — it's  got  the 
makings  of  a  real  good  story." 

At  this  moment  the  door  opened,  and  Jessie  brought 
in  the  tea,  and  by  doing  so  changed  these  two  bewitched 
people  back  to  their  real  selves,  and  the  millionaire  news- 
paper king  found  himself  once  more  only  a  young  re- 
porter, and  the  trembling  literary  aspirant  at  his  feet 
became,  as  at  the  wave  of  a  wand,  again  the  tired,  once 


90  HAPPY  HOUSE 


mildly  successful  old  novelist,  his  hostess  and  potential 
mother-in-law. 

They  were  both  embarrassed  for  a  few  minutes,  and 
then,  as  they  drank  their  tea,  Mrs.  Walbridge  found  her- 
self, to  her  great  though  gentle  surprise,  telling  him  what 
she  instinctively  called  the  story  of  her  life. 

"My  father  was  a  solicitor,"  she  said,  "in  Lincoln's 
Inn,  and  we  lived  in  Russell  Street.  It's  a  boarding- 
house  now.  I  went  past  it  the  other  day  on  my  way  to 
the  Tube,  and  it  brought  it  all  back  so  clearly!  My 
mother  died  when  I  was  a  child,  and  one  of  my  aunts 
brought  me  up.  She  was  very  old-fashioned,  and  rather 
an  invalid,  so  as  a  child  I  saw  hardly  anyone  but  her 
and  my  nurse,  and  once  in  a  long  while  my  father.  For 
years  I  never  read  anything  but  Miss  Yonge's  books, 
and  Edna  Lyall's,  and  The  Girl's  Own  Paper.  My  aunt 
was  very  particular  about  my  books." 

"She  must  have  been,"  growled  the  young  man,  try- 
ing to  eat  his  toast  silently,  so  that  he  could  hear. 

"I  never  went  to  school,  but  had  a  series  of  govern- 
esses, all  very  sad  women.  Most  governesses  seem  to 
be  sad,  don't  they?  And  all  oldish,  and  not  in  very 
good  health.  I  was  allowed  to  read  Sir  Walter  Scott's 
poems,  and  one  or  two  of  Dickens  as  I  grew  older.  But 
I  never  liked  Dickens;  he  writes  about  such  common 
people.  I  loved  Bulwer,  and  my  aunt  allowed  me  to 
read  several  of  his.  My  aunt  died  when  I  was  sixteen, 
and  six  months  after  her  death  my  father  went  to  Mexico 
on  business,  which  would  have  made  him  a  very  rich 
man  if  it  had  turned  out  as  he  hoped.  One  of  my  old 
governesses  came  to  stay  in  the  house  while  he  was  gone. 
Her  name  was  Miss  Sweet,  and  I  liked  her  because  she 
was  sentimental  and  had  a  soft  voice,  and  wasn't  at  all 


HAPPY  HOUSE  91 


particular  about  dates.  Then  it  was  that  I  wrote  my  first 
book — or  not  quite  then,  for  I  was  nearly  eighteen,  but 
my  father  was  still  away." 

She  hesitated  for  a  moment.  She  was  allowing  her 
voice  more  scope  since  the  gloom  had  thickened  in  the 
quiet  room.  The  young  man  did  not  move,  for  he 
feared  to  disturb  her. 

"It  was  a  caretaker  in  the  next  house  which  had  long 
been  empty  that  put  the  idea  into  my  head.  She  was 
an  old  woman  with  a  niece,  who  lived  with  her,  and 
the  niece  was  very  pretty.  The  story  was  a  dreadful  one 
— a  tragedy,  and  the  girl  committed  suicide.  I  can't 
quite  tell  you,"  the  quiet  voice  went  on,  "what  it  meant 
to  an  ignorant  girl,  sheltered  as  I  was,  to  be  plunged 
into  the  midst  of  such  horrors.  Poor  old  Mrs.  Bell 
waked  us  up  in  the  middle  of  the  night  when  it  hap- 
pened, and  I  went  alone,  as  Miss  Sweet  had  a  bad  attack 
of  asthma." 

She  shuddered,  and  reaching  to  the  back  of  a  chair, 
took  from  it  and  wrapped  round  her  shoulders  a  little 
old  red  shawl.  On  and  on  went  the  quiet  voice,  telling 
the  story  with  a  kind  of  neat  dexterity  and  absence  of 
the  overburdening  adjectives  common  to  such  narration. 

Wick  was  amazed  and  filled  with  pity  at  the  thought 
of  what  life  had  been  to  this  woman  to  reduce  her  powers 
to  the  deadly  level  of  the  tales  that  she  poured  out  regu- 
larly every  autumn. 

"It  was  a  dreadful  business,  as  you  see,  but  some- 
how after  the  first  it  didn't  frighten  or  upset  me  much, 
though  it  made  poor  Miss  Sweet  quite  ill.  Afterwards 
we  went  down  to  Lulworth  Cove  for  a  change,  and  it  was 
while  we  were  down  there  that  I  wrote  the  book.  I  was 


92  HAPPY  HOUSE 


very  happy  then.  Your  work,"  she  added,  with  a  touch 
of  innocent  vanity,  "not  being  creative,  you  may  not 
realise  what  writing  a  book  really  is,  but  it's  very  won- 
derful. I  used  to  sit  on  the  rocks  and  scribble  away  by 
the  hour.  I  think  it  was  very  good  too,  and  I  was  proud 
of  it.  And  the  day  after  we  got  home,  in  the  autumn — 
we  had  been  called  back  by  a  telegram  saying  that  my 
father  had  reached  Liverpool — I  packed  up  the  manu- 
script on  the  dining-room  table  and  addressed  it  to  Mr. 
Murray.  Someone  had  spilt  a  little  black  currant  jam 
on  the  tablecloth,  and  as  I  arranged  the  pages  I  managed 
to  smear  a  little  of  it  across  the  title,  and  I  remember 
getting  cold  water  and  a  bit  of  cotton-wool  and  washing 
it  off,  and  then  drying  it  before  the  kitchen  fire,  and 
mending  the  spoilt  letters  with  a  very  fine  pen,  so  that 
it  would  look  nice.  'Hannah'  was  the  name  of  it.  Not 
a  very  good  title,  but  that  was  the  way  it  came  to  me," 
she  added  softly,  and  her  voice  trailed  away  into  silence. 

The  darkness  increased  suddenly,  and  the  firelight 
made  a  lake  of  colour  on  the  hearthrug,  the  only  colour 
left  in  the  room. 

"Well,"  Wick  asked  hoarsely,  "did  John  Murray  pub- 
lish it?" 

She  laughed.  "John  Murray  never  saw  it.  I  left 
it  on  the  hall  table  that  night,  and  was  going  to  register 
it  myself  in  the  morning.  When  my  father  came  in 
late  he  noticed  it,  and  opened  it." 

"Well ?" 

Somehow  he  never  forgot  the  feel  of  the  room  at  that 
moment,  or  the  chill  sound  of  the  next  words  as  they  fell 
on  his  waiting  ears. 

"He  burnt  it."    After  a  little  while  she  went  on :    "He 


HAPPY  HOUSE  93 


was  horrified  by  it.  I  suppose  it  was  not  very  proper, 
written  by  a  young  girl,  and  he  had  never  known  that 
I  understood  about  such  things,  but  of  course  I  did,  after 
the  adventure  of  poor  Kitty  Bailey.  Ring  the  bell,  will 
you,  Oliver?  It's  growing  very  dark." 

He  rang,  and  while  the  lamp  was  being  brought  he 
knelt  on  the  old  hearthrug  and  mended  the  fire.  In  a 
few  moments  the  crude,  unlovely  room  was  piteously 
bright,  and  the  mystery  had  flown. 

"Weren't  you  very  angry?"  Wick  asked,  as  the  door 
closed  on  the  maid. 

"I  ?  Oh,  no.  It  was  he  who  was  angry — my  father. 
I  think  he  was  too  hard  on  me,  but  it  didn't  matter  very 
much.  It  was  probably  very  badly  written,  though  at 
the  time  I  thought  it  was  good." 

Wick  held  out  his  hand.  "Well,  I  must  be  off.  Thank 
you  so  much  for  telling  me,  Mrs.  Walbridge.  Did  you 
go  on  writing  at  once  then?" 

Her  thin,  small-boned  hand  quivered  in  his  as  she 
answered : 

"Oh,  no.  I  didn't  write  again  until — until  after  my 
marriage." 

They  stood  looking  very  kindly  at  each  other,  the 
old  woman  and  the  young  man,  and  then  she  said  sud- 
denly, as  he  took  up  his  hat  and  stick : 

"I  don't  know  why  I  told  you,  except,  perhaps,  that 
it  happened,  the  burning  of  'Hannah,'  I  mean,  thirty- 
five  years  ago  to-day.  I  was  thinking  about  it  before 
you  came." 

As  he  hurried  through  the  rain  towards  the  'bus,  the 
young  man  counted  back. 

"That  makes  her  fifty-two,"  he  said.  "I  thought  she 
was  older  than  that." 


94  HAPPY  HOUSE 


As  he  squeezed  into  the  crowded  interior  of  "every- 
body's carriage,"  as  de  Amicis  calls  it,  a  feeling  of  great 
pity  swept  over  him.  "How  it  must  have  hurt,"  he 
thought-,  "for  her  to  remember  it  like  that." 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  Gaskell-Walkers  returned  from  their  very  long 
honeymoon  a  few  days  later  and  spent  the  night  at 
Happy  House,  their  own  house  being  not  quite  ready 
for  them. 

It  having  rained  without  ceasing  for  a  week  at  the 
Lakes,  the  young  man  had  taken  his  bride  to  North 
Devon,  where  he  had  hired  a  car  and  they  had  spent  a 
delightful  time  tearing  over  the  country  as  fast  as  they 
could  go,  which  happened  to  be  Mr.  Gaskell-Walker's 
higher  form  of  enjoyment.  He  had  made  notes  of  the 
distance  traversed  each  separate  day,  and  to  Mrs.  Wai- 
bridge's  bewildered  mind,  it  seemed  as  if  they  had  been 
nowhere,  but  had  spent  their  time  going  from  or  to  dif- 
ferent places.  However,  her  pretty  daughter  was  in 
blooming  health,  and  displayed  her  airs  and  graces  in 
an  artless  and  becoming  way  like  some,  pretty  bird. 
Wracked  with  worry,  almost  unbearably  anxious  about 
her  new  work,  on  which  subject  her  publishers  had  main- 
tained a  silence  which  looked  ominous.  Mrs.  Wai- 
bridge  gave  herself  up  to  delight  for  a  few  hours  in 
watching  the  happiness  of  these  young  people  and  hear- 
ing their  comfortable  plans  for  the  future.  She  had 
never  seen  the  house  in  Campden  Hill,  but  Hermione 
had  been  taken  there  shortly  before  her  wedding,  and 
was  delighted  with  everything  about  it.  The  drawing- 
room  was  apparently  the  only  drawing-room  in  London 
that  was  over  twenty  feet  long,  and  the  art  treasures, 

95 


96  HAPPY  HOUSE 


about  which  the  young  woman  talked  vaguely,  but  with 
immense  satisfaction,  seemed  to  be  various  and  valuable. 

"There  is  a  whole  room  full  of  Chinese  dragons," 
Gaskell-Walker  told  her  at  dinner,  "wicked-looking, 
teethy  devils  of  all  sizes.  I  used  to  be  awfully  frightened 
of  them  when  I  was  a  kid." 

"And  the  loveliest  Indian  screens,  mother,  you  know, 
that  dull,  crumbly-looking  wood,  inlaid  with  mother-of- 
pearl." 

Mrs.  Walbridge  had  no  idea  of  the  exact  income  of 
her  son-in-law,  but  she  knew  that  the  young  couple 
intended  to  keep  three  servants  and  that  Billy  was  part- 
ner in  a  fairly  prosperous,  though  new,  stockbroking 
firm  in  Throgmorton  Street.  He  was  not  so  sympathetic 
to  her  as  Maud's  husband.  Moreton  Twiss  was  young 
and  full  of  boyish  high  spirits  and  a  kind  of  innocent 
horse-play,  that  even  the  arrival  of  Hilary  had  in  no 
wise  quieted ;  and  for  some  reason  his  untidy  black  hair 
and  twinkling  eyes  were  dearer  to  her  than  the  correct 
smartness  of  the  more  conventional  Gaskell-Walker. 

Gaskell-Walker  was  ten  or  twelve  years  older  than  the 
other  man,  although  he  had  married  the  younger  daugh- 
ter, and  being  extremely  short-sighted,  he  wore  pince- 
nez,  without  which  his  mother-in-law  had  never  seen 
him.  She  was  one  of  those  people  who  prefer  eyes  to  be 
unglazed.  However,  everything  pointed  to  happiness  be- 
ing in  store  for  Hermy,  for  she  and  her  husband  were 
very  much  in  love  with  each  other,  he  rather  more  than 
she  was,  which  her  mother  felt  to  be  as  things  should  be. 
And  the  little  dinner  was  very  pleasant,  Paul  being  at 
his  best,  which  was  very  good,  so  good  that  he  rarely 
produced  it  for  family  use,  and  Hermy,  being  a  daugh- 
ter for  any  mother's  eyes  to  rest  upon  with  pride,  in  he* 


HAPPY  HOUSE  97 


pretty  sapphire-blue  frock,  with  the  charming  diamond 
pendant  her  husband  had  given  her  for  her  wedding 
present,  blinking  on  her  lovely  bosom. 

"What  news  from  Guy?"  the  bride  asked,  as  they 
lingered  in  the  old-fashioned  way  over  their  walnuts  and 
port. 

"I  had  a  beautiful  letter  from  him  only  this  afternoon. 
I  am  going  to  show  it  to  you.  He's  very  well  and  seems 
to  have  made  some  nice  friends  amongst  the  officers." 

Gaskell-Walker  laughed.  "Trust  Master  Guy  to  make 
friends,"  he  said,  cracking  a  nut  with  care,  his  over- 
manicured  nails  flashing  as  he  did  so.  "Easier  to  make 
than  to  keep  them  in  his  case." 

"Like  the  Governor,"  commented  Paul  carelessly. 

"Children,  children,"  Mrs.  Walbridge  glanced  with 
anxious  eyes  from  the  one  to  the  other,  "I  do  wish  you 
wouldn't  speak  of  your  father  so — or  Guy  either,  Paul, 
if  you  don't  mind." 

Gaskell-Walker  bowed  courteously.  "I  am  sorry, 
Mrs.  Walbridge,"  he  answered,  plainly  meaning  what  he 
said,  "I  was  only  chaffing.  We  always  tease  the  brat 
about  his  new  intimate  friends,  and  I  didn't  mean  to 
say  a  word  against  him." 

"Is  father  really  better?"  Hermoine  put  in,  smiling 
at  her  mother  over  the  top  of  her  glass.  "I  hear  he  is 
carrying  on  anyhow  with  Clara  Crichell.  Who  was  it 
told  us  so,  Billy?" 

"Oh,  shut  up,  Hermy,"  put  in  Paul  with  a  glance  at 
his  mother,  who,  however,  had  paid  no  attention  to  the 
remark. 

It  was  a  peculiarity  of  Mrs.  Walbridge's  children  that, 
while  each  one  of  them  individually  was  capable  of  hurt- 
ing her  a  dozen  times  a  day,  not  one  of  them  could  bear 


98  HAPPY  HOUSE 


one  of  the  others  to  inflict  the  slightest  scratch  on  her. 

"The  kid's  having  a  grand  time/'  Paul  went  on  to 
his  sister,  "with  Fred  and  Elsie  Ford.  Balls  and  din- 
ners every  night  and  adorers  by  the  dozen,  so  Archie 
Pratt  told  me.  He  had  been  down  there — he's  a  cousin 
of  Elsie's,  you  know.  He  says  the  kid's  the  success  of 
the  place.  Seemed  rather  smitten  himself,  I  thought." 

"I  loathe  Archie  Pratt,"  murmured  Hermione,  "he 
smells  of  white  rose  and  is  always  talking  about  biplanes 
and  monoplanes." 

"He  is  an  Ai  airman,"  put  in  her  husband,  "they 
say  he  is  down  for  a  D.  S.  O.  for  that  Italian  business. 
By  the  way,  Paul,  I  hear  the  Armistice  is  most  certainly 
going  to  be  signed  next  week." 

Paul  nodded.  "Yes,  according  to  the  paper  it  is,  but 
some  of  these  duffers  will  probably  put  it  off." 

"No.  I  have  it  pretty  straight.  It  really  is  going  to 
be.  The  Hun  cannot  possibly  hold  out  any  longer.  It's 
funny  the  way  they  cling  to  that  figure-head  of  the 
Kaiser.  But  his  nerve  seems  to  be  completely  broken. 
He  won't  be  able  to  stick  it  out." 

Mrs.  Walbridge  pushed  back  her  chair.  "Guy  says 
they  expect  it  to  be  signed  on  Monday  or  Tuesday — the 
French  expect  it,  I  mean." 

"What  is  Guy  going  to  do  then?"  asked  Gaskell- 
Walker,  as  he  opened  the  door. 

His  mother-in-law  looked  at  him  vaguely.  "Do?  I 
don't  know.  I  suppose  he'll  go  back  to  the  City.  Mr. 
McCormick  promised  to  take  him  back,  but  I  don't  know 
— he  hasn't  said  anything  about  it.  I'll  get  his  letter." 

They  went  upstairs  to  the  girl's  room,  for  Paul  had 
long  since  established  his  aesthetic  inability  to  sit  in  "the 
mausoleum,"  as  he  called  the  drawing-room,  and  there, 


HAPPY  HOUSE  99 


among  the  pretty  modern  knick-knacks  and  pictures, 
the  mother  read  her  soldier  son's  letter. 

It  was  a  good  letter,  unoriginal  and  typical  in  its  lack 
of  grumbling  and  rather  artificial  cheerfulness.  The 
writer  called  his  friends  and  comrades  by  odd  nicknames, 
vegetable  and  otherwise ;  he  gave  the  details  of  the  food, 
and  the  delights  of  sleeping  in  a  bed  once  more  after 
eighteen  months  of  trench  life.  Then  at  the  last  there 
was  something  over  which  Mrs.  Walbridge  hesitated  for 
a  moment — something  which  was  plainly  very  impor- 
tant to  her.  Billy  Gaskell-Walker  got  up. 

"I'll  just  go  down  and  get  a  cigar  out  of  my  coat 
pocket,"  he  said  kindly. 

But  Mrs.  Walbridge  stopped  him.  "No,  no,  Billy, 
don't  go,"  she  said,  "I'd  like  you  to  hear  because  you  are 
going  to  be  brothers  now."  She  could  not  tell  him  that 
it  was  Paul  before  whom  she  had  hesitated  to  read  the 
more  intimate  part  of  the  letter. 

Paul  sat  at  the  far  end  of  the  room,  reading  a  news- 
paper, his  smoothly  brushed  hair  gleaming  over  the  back 
of  Grisel's  favourite  chair. 

"Of  course,  you  know  that  Guy  has  been  rather  fool- 
ish," his  mother  went  on  after  a  pause,  putting  on  her 
spectacles  again.  "But  he  is  only  twenty-one,  after  all, 
and  that's  not  so  very  old,  is  it  ?" 

Curiously  enough  the  stranger,  the  man  who  was 
nothing  to  her  or  to  her  boy  by  blood,  understood  her 
better  and  was  closer  to  her  at  that  moment  than  either 
her  son  or  her  daughter.  Gaskell-Walker  drew  his  chair 
a  little  nearer  and  took  his  cigarette  out  of  his  mouth,  a 
queer  little  unpremeditated  act  of  homage  which  she 
noticed  and  for  which  she  was  grateful. 

"A  man  of  twenty-one,"  he  said  slowly,  "is  not  a  man 


ioo  HAPPY  HOUSE 


at  all,  he's  only  a  child,  and  Guy  is  so  good-looking, 

he's  so  full  of  what  women  call  charm "  he  broke  off 

with  an  expressive  shrug,  and  after  smiling  gratefully 
at  him,  and  lowering  her  voice  a  little  that  she  might 
not  disturb  Paul's  study  of  the  Evening  Standard,  his 
mother-in-law  went  on  with  the  letter,  reading  in  a  low, 
moved  voice: 

"'Dear  old  Mum,  I  shall  be  awfully  glad  to  get 
back.  I've  been  thinking  quite  a  lot  lately  and  I  can 
see  better  than  I  used  to  what  a  selfish  young  cub  I've 
always  been  to  you.  Of  course,  it's  your  own  fault 
that  we're  all  such  pigs.  You've  been  too  good  to  us? 
— That,"  the  reader  broke  off  to  say,  "is  ridiculous. — 
'But  then  I've  just  sort  of  taken  everything  for  grant' 
ed.  Ifs  been  part  of  nature  that  you  should  sit  up  in 
the  little  garret  room,  slaving  away  at  writing  books 
to  do  things  and  buy  things  for  us.  It  never  struck  me 
before  that  you  don't  have  much  of  a  time,  but  it  does 
now,  and  when  I  come  back  I'm  going  to  try  to  be  a 
little  more  decent  to  you.  It  isn't  that  I  didn't  love 
you ' "  Her  voice  fell  still  lower  and  she  shot  an- 
other nervous  glance  at  the  back  of  Paul's  immovable 
head.  " '/  always  did — we  all  do,  of  course.  It's  just 
possible  that  we're  all  selfish  without  meaning  to  be 
and  I've  been  the  worst,  because,  of  course,  Paul  has 
been  working  for  years  and  has  no  time  to  do  very 
much,  and  ifs  different  with  the  girls.  But  I'd  give 
something  nice  now,  when  I  think  about  it  all  out  here, 
if  I  hadn't  always  been  such  a  hound  about  going  up- 
stairs for  you  and  down  to  the  kitchen  and  little  things 
like  that.  Your  poor  old  feet  must  have  been  pretty 


HAPPY  HOUSE  101 


tired  sometimes  chasing  about  doing  things  for  us, 
and  in  future  I'm  going  to  do  the  chasing/ '' 

"Bless  him,"  put  in  Hermione  lazily,  "he's  a  good 
child.  We  must  kill  the  fatted  calf  for  him  when  he 
comes  home.  Billy,  we'll  have  a  beautiful  party ." 

Gaskell- Walker  nodded.  "Bravo,  Brat"  he  approved 
gently.  "We  mustn't  tease  him  any  more.  Perhaps," 
he  added  thoughtfully,  "I  might  get  him  a  job  in  Throg- 
morton  Street.  Don't  think  much  of  McCormick,  any- 
way. 

"There's  a  little  more,"  went  on  Mrs.  Walbridge, 
who  had  not  listened  to  this  conversation,  but  was  bend- 
ing over  her  letter,  partly,  it  struck  her  son-in-law,  to 
hide  her  eyes,  "it's  about — about  that  poor  girl — you 
know." 

Paul  turned  round  in  his  chair  and  rested  his  chin 
on  its  black  satin  back. 

"Francine,  you  mean" — he  laughed  with  a  little  sneer, 
"what  about  her?  The  youth  seems  to  be  making  his 
soul  in  earnest,  but  I  have  my  doubts  as  to  whether  the 
lady  will  be  satisfied  with  the  role  he  offers  her." 

"Oh,  shut  up,  Paul,  you're  a  cat,"  Hermione  almost 
snapped,  in  her  unusual  vehemence.  "Unless,  I  am  very 
much  mistaken  you  liked  the  girl  yourself  till  the  Brat 
came  along  and  wiped  your  eye." 

"Shut  up,  you  two.  "Go  on,  Mrs.  Walbridge,"  inter- 
rupted Gaskell-Walker.  "The  girl's  no  worse  than  most 
young  fellow's  first  adventure.  Go  and  chew  your  bone 
on  the  mat,  you  two,  if  you've  got  to  squabble,  I  want 
to  hear  what  the  Brat  says." 

After  a  pained  look  at  her  elder  son,  Mrs.  Walbridge 
went  on  with  the  letter,  Paul  walking  ostentatiously  in- 


102  HAPPY  HOUSE 


different  to  the  piano  and  turning  over  the  music  on  top 
of  it  as  she  did  so. 

"  'I  know  you  have  been  worried  to  death  about  my 
silly  scrape  with  that  girl,  but  it  really  wasn't  so  bad  as 
you  all  thought.  I  can't  tell  you  about  it  in  a  letter, 
but  I  will  when  I  see  you  and  then  you'll  see  that  I 
wasn't  quite  such  an  ass  as  most  people  imagined. 
Anyhow,  I  straightened  it  all  out  the  best  way  I  could 
before  I  went  back  after  my  last  leave,  and  I  know 
you'll  be  glad  to  hear  that  I  didn't  treat  her  badly' 
That's  all  he  said  about  her.  Then  he  asks  about  his 
bullfinch — we've  not  told  him  it  died — and  sends  his 
love  to  everyone."  Her  voice  shook  a  little  as  she  read 
on.  "  'Tell  old  Paul  I'm  awfully  glad  to  hear  he's  do- 
ing so  well,  and  hope  he'll  soon  be  able  to  get  out  of 
that  cursed  bank.  I  wish  he'd  ^vrite  to  me,  letters  are 
a  great  boon  out  here.  Give  the  girls  each  a  kiss  and 
tell  Billy  that  a  little  stick  won't  do  Mrs.  Hermy  any 
harm,  when  she  goes  through  her  manners  at  home!' 
Isn't  it  a  very  nice  letter,  Billy?" 

"It  is  indeed,  Mrs.  Walbridge,  there's  good  stuff  in 
the  Brat,  and  for  one,  I'm  going  to  do  my  best  to  help 
it  come  out.  He'll  have  a  good  time  at  our  house — we 
both  like  entertaining,  and  I've  done  pretty  well  this  year, 
and  it'll  be  nice  for  him  to  have  a  cheery  place  to  go 
to,  full  of  young  people.  We  must  get  some  pretty  flap- 
pers to  amuse  him,  Hermy,  and  then  he  won't  want  to  go 
wasting  his  time  in  silly  places." 

Paul  turned.  "I  rather  think,"  he  drawled,  "that  we 
haven't,  in  spite  of  all  these  virtuous  plans,  heard  the 
last  of  the  excellent  Francine.  Good-night,  Gaskell- 


HAPPY  HOUSE  103 


Walker."  He  left  the  room,  closing  the  door  very  softly 
behind  him. 

"I  do  wish,"  snapped  Hermy,  "that  Paul  would  slam 
the  door  when  he's  furious,  like  a  Christian.  That  cat- 
footed  way  of  his  drives  me  mad." 

A  little  later  Mrs.  Walbridge  accompanied  her  guests 
to  their  room,  where  everything  had  been  prepared  for 
them  with  the  most  minute  and  loving  care. 

"There's  the  cold  milk,  Billy,  on  your  side,  and 
Hermy's  hot  milk  is  in  the  thermos.  The  windows  are 
open  at  the  top  about  a  foot.  Is  that  right?" 

Hermione  kissed  her  mother,  who,  after  a  minute's 
hesitation,  kissed  her  again. 

"That's  poor  little  Guy's  kiss,"  the  elder  woman  said. 
"Oh,  Hermy,  I'm  so  glad  he's  coming  home." 

Mrs.  Walbridge  then  held  out  her  hand  to  her  son-in- 
law.  "Good-night.  Billy,  it's  nice  having  you  here. 
You've  been  very  kind  about  Guy.  It  has  made  me 
happy." 

Gaskell-Walker  peered  closely  into  her  face,  for  he 
had  taken  his  glasses  off.  He  was  a  selfish  man,  and  not 
particularly  tender-hearted,  selfishness  after  forty  having 
a  tendency  to  grow  a  thick  membrane  over  the  feelings. 
But  something  in  her  face  touched  him. 

"Good-night,  dear  Mrs.  Walbridge,"  he  said  gently. 
"Will  you  allow  your  new  son-in-law  to  kiss  you  good- 
night?" And  he  bent  and  kissed  her  on  her  soft  cheek. 


CHAPTER  X 

AT  half-past  seven  on  the  morning  01  Armistice  Day 
Caroline  Breeze,  who  was  an  early  waker,  but  a  late 
riser,  was  sitting  up  in  bed  reading.  Her  small,  high  up 
flat  was  very  comfortable,  and  the  good  old  woman 
had  only  to  cross  the  room  to  light  her  gas-ring  and 
prepare  her  morning  tea.  This  she  had  done  half  an 
hour  before,  and  was  now  propped  up  against  many 
pillows  with  a  pleasantly  furnished  tea-tray  on  her  lap, 
bread  and  butter  in  one  hand,  which  she  dipped  shame- 
lessly into  her  tea,  as  she  read,  with  avid,  dreamy  eyes, 
a  new  novel. 

Miss  Breeze  was  about  sixty,  and  of  irredeemable 
plainness,  being  the  victim  of  that  cruel  form  of  indi- 
gestion that  makes  the  nose  red  and  the  eyes  watery. 
Her  sparse  grey  hair,  the  front  part  of  which  was  by  day 
covered  by  a  front  of  grey  glossiness  with  but  few  pre- 
tences at  concealment,  that  now  hung,  carefully  brushed, 
on  the  foot  of  her  bed  like  a  bloodless  and  innocently 
come  by  war  trophy,  was  screwed  up  on  top  of  her  big 
square  head.  She  wore  a  little  flannel  jacket  of  the 
wrong  shade  of  pink;  her  eiderdown,  her  window  cur- 
tains, her  wallpaper  were  pink,  all  too,  of  that  patheti- 
cally wrong  shade,  but  being  comfortably  colour  blind, 
or  taste  blind,  she  knew  nothing  of  this,  and  regarded 
her  room  as  a  bower  of  beauty  and  charm.  The  book  she 
was  reading  was  intensely  interesting;  there  was  in  it 
a  most  cruelly  treated  companion,  a  revolting  lap-dog 

104 


HAPPY  HOUSE  105 


that  had  to  be  taken  for  walks  in  the  park,  and  a  hand- 
some nephew  who  ground  his  teeth  in  moments  of  emo- 
tion, and  had  designs  on  Rosamund  (that  was  the  gov- 
erness's name).  So  engrossed  was  the  good  lady  that 
presently  she  allowed  her  bit  of  bread  and  butter  to  soak 
too  long  in  the  tea,  and  as  she  raised  it  to  her  mouth  it 
disintegrated,  and  fell  with  a  horrid  splash  on  her  jacket. 

"Oh,  dear,  how  disgusting!"  the  old  lady  said  aloud, 
laying  down  her  book  and  removing  the  tea-soaked  and 
buttery  bread  with  a  knife.  "I  do  hope  it's  going  to  end 
all  right." 

When  she  had  rubbed  the  front  of  her  jacket  vigor- 
ously with  her  napkin,  she  took  up  the  book;  and  with  a 
furtive  air  turned  to  the  last  page.  This  habit  of  look- 
ing at  the  end  before  she  got  to  it  was  one  of  which  Miss 
Breeze  was  very  ashamed,  but  she  was  so  tender-hearted 
that  when  she  saw  in  the  story  any  signs  of  possible  trag- 
edy, she  really  could  not  resist  taking  a  hasty  glance  at 
the  ending,  just  to  see  if  things  were  all  right.  If  they 
were  she  went  back  to  the  tale  with  undisturbed  zest,  and 
undiminished  excitement  over  the  intervening  troubles 
of  the  heroine.  But  if  the  author  had  been  so  foolish  as 
to  allow  death  or  misunderstanding  to  blight  the  life  of 
her  heroine,  Caroline  Breeze  closed  the  book  and  never 
opened  it  again. 

She  had  just  resumed  her  reading,  when  a  ring  came 
at  her  door.  The  postman  did  not  ring,  and  she  did  not 
receive  telegrams,  so  she  was  startled,  and  sat  staring 
owl-like  through  her  glasses  towards  the  door.  The  ring 
was  repeated,  followed  by  a  quick  tapping  of  ungloved 
fingers  on  the  panel,  and  she  heard  a  voice : 

"Let  me  in,  Caroline,  it's  only  me." 

"Good  gracious.     It's  Violet!" 


io6  HAPPY  HOUSE 


Slipping  the  tray  from  her  knees  to  the  little  bamboo 
table  at  the  side  of  the  bed,  Miss  Breeze  wrapped  the 
eiderdown  round  her,  and  scuttled  across  and  opened 
the  door.  She  kissed  her  guest  and  they  both  went  back 
into  the  warm  bedroom ;  for  the  fire  in  the  little  drawing- 
room  would  not  be  lit  until  just  before  Miss  Breeze  got 
up,  and  lying  in  bed  in  the  morning  was  her  one  self- 
indulgence. 

"My  dear,  take  your  hat  off  and  sit  down  in  the  com- 
fortable chair.  Whatever  has  brought  you  here  at  this 
hour?" 

"Trouble,"  answered  Mrs.  Walbridge  simply,  doing  as 
she  was  told.  "I  want  you  to  do  something  for  me, 
Caroline,  it's  a  favour.  I've  very  little  time,  so  I  can't 
explain.  I  must  have  some  money." 

"Money!"  Miss  Breeze  had  known  Mrs.  Walbridge 
for  many  years,  but  she  had  never  suspected  that  her 
friend  had  money  troubles. 

"Yes,  I  must  have  some  at  once,  and  I  want  you  to 
— to  pawn  these  for  me." 

Opening  her  bag,  she  took  out  a  little  old  case  into 
which  she  had  crowded  her  two  or  three  old-fashioned 
diamond  rings,  and  two  pairs  of  ear-rings,  one  of  seed 
pearls,  the  other  of  pale  sapphires  clumsily  set  in  dia- 
mond chips  and  thick  gold. 

Caroline  Breeze  had  never  been  inside  a  pawnshop 
in  her  life,  but  she  did  not  protest  against  the  horrid 
errand. 

"I'll  get  up  at  once  and  go,"  she  said.  "Wrhat  do  you 
think  they  ought  to  give  me?" 

Mrs.  Walbridge,  who  was  very  pale,  and  whose  eyes 
looked  larger  and  more  sunken  than  ever,  shrugged  her 


HAPPY  HOUSE  107 


shoulders  helplessly.  "I  haven't  the  slightest  idea,"  she 
said. 

"What's  that  book?"  she  added  sharply,  the  crimson 
cover  of  her  friend's  novel  catching  her  eyes. 

Miss  Breeze's  face,  already  so  red  and  white  in  the 
wrong  places,  turned  a  deep  bluish  colour  of  extreme 
embarrassment.  "Oh,  it's — it's  just  a  book,"  she  stam- 
mered, laying  her  hand  on  it.  "I — I  thought  I'd  like 
to  read  it,  just  to  see  if  it  really  is  good." 

Mrs.  Walbridge,  who  had  risen,  held  out  her  hand. 

"Let  me  see  it,  Caroline,"  she  said  quietly,  and  Miss 
Breeze  gave  it  to  her.  "I  thought  so — Beryl  J.  Bell. 
I've  seen  it  advertised.  Jones  &  Hayward  advertise  a 
great  deal.  Is  it — is  it  good?" 

Mrs.  Walbridge's  voice  shook  a  little,  and  Caroline 
Breeze  turned  her  eyes  away. 

"Nothing  extra,"  she  answered  in  a  voice  that  tried 
to  be  indifferent.  "I  suppose  they  spend  a  lot  of  money 
in  advertising  her." 

Forgetting  her  hurry,  Mrs.  Walbridge  sat  down  again 
and  looked  eagerly  through  the  book.  There  was  a  long 
silence,  a  flutter  of  pages  being  the  only  noise  in  the 
quiet  room.  Caroline  Breeze's  faithful  heart  ached  for 
her  friend,  and  in  her  wisdom  she  said  nothing.  But 
Mrs.  Walbridge  spoke  after  she  had  closed  the  book 
and  laid  it  down  on  the  bed. 

"I  suppose  you  know,"  her  voice  was  very  quiet, and 
the  colour  had  died  away  from  her  face,  leaving  the 
shadows  and  lines  in  it  deeper  than  ever.  "I  suppose 
you  know  that  'Lord  Effingham'  is — a  failure?" 

Caroline  made  a  dreadful  grimace,  rumpling  up  her 
nose  and  protruding  her  thick  lips  two  or  three  times 


io8  HAPPY  HOUSE 


rapidly,  a  way  she  had  when  she  was  embarrassed  or 
distressed. 

"Oh,  no,"  she  protested,  "not  a  failure.  I've  noticed 
that  the  critics  don't  seem  to  like  it  quite  so  much  as 
the  others,  but " 

"Don't.  It's  a  failure,  Caroline,  and  it's  right  that  it 
should  be.  I  tried  to  change  it,  to  make  it  more  mod- 
ern, and  I've  spoiled  it  completely.  It's  neither  fish, 
flesh,  fowl,  nor  good  red  herring." 

"Oh,  Violet!"  Poor  Miss  Breeze's  watery  eyes  over- 
flowed a  little,  the  tears  did  not  fall,  but  spread  awk- 
wardly, scantily,  over  her  rutted  cheeks,  and  made  her 
plain  face  even  plainer.  "I  love  your  books,  and  I 
love  this  one  too.  If  they  had  let  you  alone  it  would 
have  been  sweet." 

"Yes,  but  they  didn't  let  me  alone,  and  they  were 
right  not  to.  They  weren't  unkind,  they  were  right." 

There  was  something  innocently  pathetic  in  the  little 
figure  by  the  bed.  The  plain  old  felt  hat  was  on  one 
side  of  her  head,  and  in  the  strengthening  morning  light 
she  looked  a  really  old  woman — an  unhappy,  hopeless 
old  woman. 

"I'm  old-fashioned,  Caroline — out  of  date.  That's 
what  it  is.  These  new  people — that  woman  for  instance, 
Beryl  J.  Bell — she's  young,  she  believes  in  her  books, 
her  mind  isn't  tired  like  mine.  I  know."  She  rose  and 
moved  nervously  about  the  room,  speaking  in  a  quick 
undertone.  "I've  always  known  that  my  books  aren't 
very  good  of  course — not  like  Hichens,  I  mean,  and 
Mrs.  Humphrey  Ward,  and  Arnold  Bennett — but  they 
were  good  of  their  kind,  and  people  did  like  them,  I 
know  they  did.  I've  had  letters  from  people  I've  never 
even  heard  of,  showing  how  much  they  liked  them,  and 


HAPPY  HOUSE  109 


how  they  had  helped  them.  But  now  they're  old-fash- 
ioned even  among  old-fashioned  ones.  That's  it."  She 
stood  still  to  utter  the  saddest  of  cries.  "I'm  old,  Caro- 
line. I'm  old." 

Poor  Caroline  Breeze  burst  into  loud  snuffling  sobs, 
and  rising  from  her  bed,  her  skimpy  nightgown  clinging 
to  her  bony  legs,  she  embraced  her  poor  friend,  and 
tried  to  comfort  her  with  love  and  lies.  Violet  Wai- 
bridge  did  not  cry.  She  was  never  a  tearful  woman,  and 
at  this  moment  was  far  past  such  a  show  of  feeling. 

"Get  back  into  bed,  dear.  You'll  catch  cold,"  she  said 
gently,  patting  her  friend's  bony  shoulder.  "I  must  go 
now  or  they'll  miss  me.  Come  to  lunch  when  you've  been 
to  the  pawnshop.  It's  good  of  you  to  go.  I  know  I 
ought  to  go  myself,  but  somehow  I  can't,  with  my  own 
things,  and  I  thought  it  would  not  be  so  bad  for  you, 
because  you  can  tell  the  man  that  it's  for  a  friend." 

This  idea  she  cherished,  poor  innocent  lady,  as  one  of 
great  originality,  and  to  Miss  Breeze  as  well  it  appeared 
valuable.  But  even  now,  grieved  as  she  was-  for  her 
friend,  it  never  occurred  to  the  faithful  Caroline  that 
the  financial  situation  of  "Happy  House"  could  possibly 
be  one  of  more  than  temporary  tightness. 

Mrs.  Walbridge  never  talked  of  money  matters  and 
for  all  Miss  Breeze  knew  might  have  a  regular  income 
quite  apart  from  her  books.  So  the  kind  old  maid's 
assumption  was  that  one  of  the  boys  had  got  into  a 
scrape,  and  that  Mrs.  Walbridge  wished  to  help  him 
without  her  husband's  knowledge.  For,  in  spite  of  the 
fact  that  Ferdie  Walbridge,  on  the  strength  of  having 
once  paid  back  ten  pounds  of  his  original  loan  from  Miss 
Breeze,  had  on  several  occasions  borrowed  further  small 
sums  of  her,  to  avoid,  he  said,  bothering  poor  Violet 


no  HAPPY  HOUSE 


about  trifles,  Caroline  still  cherished  her  pristine  belief 
that  husbands  were  superior  beings,  who  ought  not  to 
be  troubled  by  small  matters  by  their  wives. 

As  the  friends  parted  Caroline  ventured  one  question. 
"There's  another  book  sold  to  Lubbock  &  Payne,  isn't 
there?  On  that  last  contract,  I  mean." 

Mrs.  Walbridge  shook  her  head.  "No,  this  is  the  last 
of  the  three.  I — I  dare  say  I  shall  hear  from  them 
shortly. 

Caroline  Breeze  went  back  to  her  room,  and  dressed 
and  prepared  to  go  on  her,  to  her,  so  strange  and  ad- 
venturous errand. 

No  one  saw  Mrs.  Walbridge  come  home,  and  the 
morning  dragged  along  with  its  usual  round  of  dull 
duties,  until  about  half  past  ten,  when  Miss  Breeze  ar- 
rived, her  long  queer  figure,  in  her  tight-fitting  jacket 
edged  with  strips  of  shabby  mink,  and  her  oddly  rakish 
hat  decorated  with  a  scrap  of  gold  lace  and  a  big  bunch 
of  pink  roses. 

"I've  been,  dear,"  she  burst  out  eagerly,  as  she  came 
into  the  attic  room,  where  her  friend  sat  at  her  work- 
table,  "and  I've  got  fifty-two  pounds.  Isn't  it  splendid  ?" 

Mrs.  Walbridge's  face  fell.  "Oh,  thanks — that's  very 
good,"  she  said,  "and  I'm  so  grateful  to  you,  Caroline." 

"It  wasn't  a  bit  like  what  I  had  expected,"  Miss 
Breeze  explained,  unbuttoning  her  jacket,  and  pulling 
out  her  cherished  lace  frill.  "I  rather  thought  there 
would  be  little  pens,  you  know,  like  the  ones  in  Dickens, 
with  a  young  man  leaning  across  a  counter.  But  it  was 
exactly  like  a  shop  and  there  was  a  very  nice  little  back 
room,  and  such  a  polite  man,  a  Christian.  He  said  the 
diamonds  were  very  good,  but  small,  and  he  didn't  seem 


HAPPY  HOUSE  in 


to  believe  me  when  I  told  him  it  was  for  a  friend. 
Wasn't  it  odd  of  him?" 

Mrs.  Walbridge  nodded.  She  had  taken  up  a  pencil 
and  was  making  some  notes  on  an  old  envelope,  "twenty- 
six,  thirty-six,"  she  murmured.  "Are  they  really  sign- 
ing the  Armistice  to-day?"  she  asked  a  moment  later, 
looking  up. 

"Yes,  I  think  so.  The  streets  are  crowded,  everybody 
seems  to  be  waiting  for  something.  I  don't  see  why  they 
don't  sign  the  peace  at  once,  and  not  waste  time  over 
an  armistice;  it  would  be  far  simpler." 

Mrs.  Walbridge  rose.  "Let's  go  downstairs,  dear," 
she  said. 

But  at  that  moment  a  sudden  ringing  of  bells  filled 
the  air — Jrells  from  all  sides,  bells  big,  bells  small,  bells 
musical  and  bells  harsh.  The  two  women  stared  at  each 
other. 

"That  must  be  it,"  Miss  Breeze  cried.  "I  thought 
they  were  going  to  fire  off  cannon." 

Mrs.  Walbridge  went  to  the  little  window  and  opened 
it.  The  sun  was  shining,  and  the  sky  was  as  clear  as  if 
they  looked  at  it  from  some  empty  moor.  She  stood 
and  looked  up. 

"Thank  God,"  she  said.  "Now  all  the  sons  and  broth- 
ers and  lovers  will  be  coming  home — those  who  are 
left " 

"And  husbands,"  agreed  Miss  Breeze,  clasping  her 
hands. 

As  the  cannon  began  to  roar,  Violet  Walbridge  turned 
and  looked  at  her  friend  with  a  curious  expression  in 
her  fine  eyes.  "And  husbands,"  she  added  softly. 


H2 HAPPY  HOUSE 

While  the  two  women  were  having  their  simple  lunch 
the  house  door  burst  open  and  Griselda  came  running 
in,  glowing  with  colour  and  happiness,  looking  the  pic- 
ture of  youth  and  beauty,  in  a  little  close-fitting  fur  cap 
and  stole  of  the  same  kind  of  fur.  The  Fords  had  mo- 
tered  her  up  to  town  to  see  the  celebrations  and  to  go  to 
a  ball  at  one  of  the  big  hotels  that  night. 

"Oh,  mother,"  she  cried,  "aren't  you  glad  it's  over — 
the  war,  I  mean?" 

She  sat  down  at  the  table,  and  leaning  her  chin  in  her 
hand,  watched  the  two  women  as  they  pecked  at  their 
bread  and  cheese. 

"Aren't  you  surprised  to  see  me?  We  only  came  up 
on  the  spur  of  the  moment.  Fred  said  it  was  a  historical 
event,  and  we  ought  not  to  miss  it,  and  he  telephoned 
through  and  got  rooms.  The  prices  are  perfectly  fear- 
ful, but  he  really  doesn't  care  what  he  spends.  So  here 
we  are.  They  sent  me  up  here  in  the  car." 

"Where,"  asked  her  mother,  in  an  odd,  dry  little  voice, 
"did  you  get  those  furs?" 

Griselda,  who  had  taken  off  the  stole,  glanced  down 
at  it  carelessly.  "Oh,  this.  Elsie  gave  it  to  me.  Fred 
gave  her  some  heavenly  sables  the  other  day,  so  she 
didn't  want  these  any  more." 

"I  gave  you  my  beaver  set." 

The  girl  glanced  curiously  at  her  mother's  face.  "I 
know  you  did,  dear,  and  it's  very  nice,  of  course.  But 
beaver  doesn't  suit  me,  and  besides  it's  very  old  fash- 
ioned." 

Mrs.  Walbridge  started  at  the  last  word,  and  her  wed- 
ding ring  struck  sharply  against  a  glass. 

"Old  fashioned?"  she  said.  "Yes,  I  suppose  it  is. 
Well,  come  upstairs,  dear,  and  take  your  things  off  in 


HAPPY  HOUSE  113 


my  room.  Jessie's  turning  yours  out  to-day,  but  it'll  be 
ready  in  a  little  while." 

Griselda  caught  up  her  stole  and  threw  it  round  her 
shoulders.  "Oh,  I'm  not  staying,"  she  explained  care- 
lessly. "We're  at  the  Ritz.  It's  only  for  two  or  three 
days,  so  I  thought  I  wouldn't — upset  things  here — and 
besides,  Elsie  wanted  me.  Sir  John  Barclay  is  motoring 
her  and  me  back  on  the  day  after  to-morrow " 

"Who  is  Sir  John  Barclay?"  asked  Miss  Breeze  in- 
terestedly. Grisel  laughed. 

"Try  to  bear  it,  Caroline,"  she  said,  "but  he's  not 
young  and  handsome;  he's  old.  Very  nice,"  she  added, 
patronisingly,  "but  really  old.  White  hair  and  all  that. 
Isn't  it  a  pity,  for  he's  as  rich  as  Croesus — copper  in  Af- 
rica it  is,  and  sheep  and  cows  in  South  America.  I 
wish  he'd  adopt  me  as  a  favourite  grandchild."  As  she 
spoke  a  long,  throaty  honk  of  a  motor  horn  was  heard. 
"That's  Peters.  I  promised  Elsie  I  wouldn't  be  late,  and 
he's  reminding  me.  We're  lunching  at  the  Carlton  with 
Sir  John,  so  I  really  mustn't  be  late.  Good-bye,  dears." 

She  kissed  both  the  women  and  they  all  three  walked 
to  the  hall  door  together. 

"Oh,  I  forgot  to  tell  you,"  the  girl  went  on,  as  she 
opened  the  door.  "Dad  says  he's  going  to  stay  on  for 
another  fortnight.  He  says  his  health's  better,  but  really 
and  truly  he's  having  the  time  of  his  life  and  is  a  thor- 
oughly gay  old  dog.  Oh,  yes,  and  he  wants  you  to 
send  him  some  new  pajamas — only  two  or  three  pairs, 
and  you're  not  to  send  him  mauve  ones.  Rather  naughty 
of  him  to  be  so  particular,  isn't  it?" 

"Griselda!"  Mrs.  Walbridge's  voice  was  very  stern, 
and  the  girl  made  a  funny  little  face  as  she  ran  down 
the  path. 


ii4  HAPPY  HOUSE 


They  watched  her  get  into  the  big  car,  and  waved  their 
hands  to  her  as  it  bore  her  quietly  away. 

The  two  women  went  back  into  the  house  and  sat 
down  in  the  drawing-room.  The  fire  had  gone  out  dur- 
ing the  excitement  of  the  morning,  and  the  room  looked 
more  than  ever  unlovely  and  uninhabited.  Mrs.  Wai- 
bridge  stood  for  a  moment  gazing  down  at  the  five 
photographs. 

"Dear  Grisel  is  having  a  splendid  time,  isn't  she?" 
asked  Caroline  warmly.  "How  nice  for  her  to  have  such 
rich  friends." 

Mrs.  Walbridge  did  not  answer.  Her  eyes  were  still 
fixed  on  the  pictures  of  her  five  children. 


CHAPTER  XI 

A  WEEK  later  Mrs.  Walbridge  received  a  letter  from  her 
publishers.  It  was  a  very  kind  letter,  for,  after  all,  pub- 
lishers are  human  beings,  and  Mr.  Lubbock  and  Mr. 
Payne  were  really  sorry  to  hurt  their  poor  little  client. 

"  Ton  my  word,  it  really  makes  me  feel  quite  miser- 
able," Mr.  Lubbock  had  told  his  partner,  with  perfect 
sincerity,  as  they  drew  up  a  rough  draft  of  the  letter 
for  Miss  Borlays,  their  most  confidential  secretary,  to 
type. 

Mr.  Payne  nodded  in  agreement.  "Poor  old  thing, 
it'll  be  an  awful  blow,  and  I  half  suspect,"  he  added, 
"that  she  supports  that  rascally,  good-looking  husband 
of  hers  by  her  earnings." 

"There  are  a  lot  of  children,  too,  Payne.  I've  for- 
gotten how  many,  but  a  great  many,"  added  Mr.  Lub- 
bock, smoothing  his  impeccable  waistcoat.  "Poor  little 
woman.  I  wish  we  didn't  have  to  do  it.  Of  course,  she 
has  grown  absolutely  out  of  date,  and  this  last  book  is 
disastrous,  positively  disastrous." 

However,  after  some  discussion,  the  two  men  decided, 
for  the  sake  of  old  times  and  long  friendship,  to  accept 
one  more  book  from  Mrs.  Walbridge. 

"We'll  buy  outright,"  Lubbock  suggested.  "What  do 
you  say?  Give  her  a  cheque  for  five  hundred  pounds 
and  let  her  deliver  the  manuscript  when  she  likes.  That'll 
let  her  down  a  bit  easier." 

Mr.  Payne  nodded.  "Five  hundred  pounds  is  a  lot 

"5 


n6  HAPPY  HOUSE 


of  money,"  he  protested  feebly.  "We  shan't  sell  as 
many  copies  either  after  this  last  mess.  However,  we'll 
do  it." 

When  they  had  finished  the  rough  draft  and  sent  it 
in  to  the  efficient  Miss  Borlays,  the  two  men  went  out  to 
lunch,  and  had  a  bottle  of  Clos  Vogeot  to  console  them- 
selves, both  for  what  was  practically  a  gift  of  a  large 
sum  of  money,  and  also  for  their  sincere  sympathy  with 
that  poor  little  superannuated  scribbler.  After  his  third 
glass  of  the  excellent  and  mellowing  wine,  Mr.  Lubbock 
even  recalled  to  his  friend  how  very  pretty  Mrs.  Wai- 
bridge  had  been  twenty  years  ago. 

"I  remember  thinking  I  had  never  seen  such  eyes  in 
my  life,"  the  good  gentleman  murmured  reminiscently, 
"and  I  was  only  just  married  in  those  days,  too." 


The  letter  was  less  of  a  blow  to  Mrs.  Walbridge  than 
might  have  been  expected,  .for,  when  faced  with  abso- 
lute ruin,  an  unexpected  five  hundred  pounds  comes  very 
nearly  like  manna  from  heaven.  Her  relief  when  she 
had  cashed  the  cheque  and  actually  had  the  notes  folded 
away  in  her  shabby  little  old  bag  was  so  great  that  she 
had  to  struggle  to  keep  the  tears  from  her  habitually 
tearless  eyes.  She  did  not  go  straight  home  from  the 
bank,  and  restraining  herself  with  a  violent  effort  from 
rushing  in  to  thank  Mr.  Lubbock  and  Mr.  Payne — a 
course  which  she  knew  would  be  extremely  distressing 
to  them  both — she  did  an  unjustifiable  but  very  forgiv- 
able thing.  She  went  to  Peter  Robinson's  and  spent 
twenty-seven  pounds  nineteen  and  sixpence  on  a  muff 
and  stole  for  Griselda.  This  she  had  sent  straight  to 
her  daughter,  and,  sitting  at  the  counter  in  the  shop, 


HAPPY  HOUSE  117 


she  wrote  a  little  letter  on  a  bit  of  paper  out  of  one  of 
her  notebooks. 

"My  darling,"  she  said,  in  her  beautiful,  clear 
writing,  "here's  a  little  present  for  you.  I  can't  bear 
you  to  accept  things  from  anyone  but  me.  Explain  to 
Elsie  Ford,  and  I'm  sure  she'll  understand  your  asking 
her  to  take  back  the  beautiful  furs  she  so  kindly  wanted 
to  give  you. 

"When  are  you  coming  back?  I  don't  want  to  cut 
your  pleasure  short,  but  you've  been  away  for  a  long1 
time  noWj  and  I  miss  you.  Oliver  came  to  see  me 
yesterday,  and  he  has  a  box  for  'Roxana,'  and  wants 
you  and  me  and  a  friend  of  his,  a  young  man,  to  go 
with  him  on  Thursday.  Guy  will  be  coming  back  any 
day  now,  and  Christmas  is  near — and  in  fact  I  want 
my  baby  very  badly. 

"Your  loving  mother^ 

"VIOLET  WALBRIDGE." 

This  note  she  pinned  on  the  muff,  and  herself  folded 
the  soft  paper  over  it  as  it  lay  in  the  box.  The  girl  who 
had  sold  it  to  her  was  very  sympathetic  and  pleasant, 
and  promised  that  it  should  go  off  that  very  day.  When 
these  things  were  accomplished,  Mrs.  Walbridge  went 
on  to  Campden  Hill,  where  she  was  lunching  with 
Hermione. 

Hilltop  Road,  Campden  Hill,  is  a  blind  alley,  beauti- 
fully quiet,  with  grass  growing  between  the  cobble- 
stones that  pave  it.  It  is  a  quiet,  sunny,  tree-sheltered 
place,  with  five  or  six  engardened  houses  on  either  side, 
the  smallest  of  which  belonged  to  the  Gaskell-Walkers. 
Even  now,  in  November,  a  few  scraggy  roses  and  some 
brown-edged  hydrangeas  still  garnished  the  sodden  gar- 


n8 HAPPY  HOUSE 

den,  and  Mrs.  Walbridge  noticed  with  pleasure,  as  she 
went  up  the  path,  that  the  painters  were  evidently  out. 
The  door  and  windows  glittered  steadily  in  the  glory 
of  new  bottle-green  paint,  and  the  windows  themselves 
had  lost  the  hollow-eyed  look  incidental  to  houses  where 
the  housemaids  are  not  yet  settled  down  to  a  religious 
respect  for  their  blinds. 

She  was  a  little  late  for  lunch,  but  Maud  was  the  only 
other  guest,  and,  as  Maud  was  very  hungry,  they  had 
not  waited  for  her,  and  she  found  them  sitting  cosily 
over  curried  eggs  in  the  pretty  dining-room.  She  had 
not  seen  Maud  for  about  a  fortnight,  and  was  pleased 
to  find  her  looking  well  and  rosy.  Hilary  was  at  the 
seaside  with  his  Grannie  Twiss,  and  Maud  and  Moreton, 
she  was  told,  had  been  having  a  high  old  time  doing 
the  theatres. 

"We  are  praying,"  the  young  wife  added  pleasantly, 
"for  bubonic  plague,  or  cholera,  or  something.  Poor 
Moreton's  only  had  three  patients  since  we  got  back, 
and  one  of  them  only  had  neuralgia  from  his  tooth, 
and  Moreton  had  to  send  him  across  the  passage  to  Mr. 
Burton  to  pull  out  a  few.  That,"  she  added,  reaching 
for  the  salt,  "was  rather  bitter." 

Hermione,  looking  radiantly  pretty  in  her  smart 
trousseau  coat  and  skirt,  was  full  of  simple  news  about 
her  husband  and  her  house  and  their  plans. 

"Billy's  not  forgotten  his  promise  about  the  Brat," 
she  said,  after  a  while.  "He's  asked  Mr.  Browning, 
his  partner,  you  know,  and  he  says  he  thinks  they  could 
make  some  kind  of  a  place  for  him — for  Guy,  I  mean." 

"That's  very  kind  of  him.  I  haven't  heard  from 
Guy  for  over  a  week.  I  suppose  he'll  be  coming  any 
day  now,  bless  him." 


HAPPY  HOUSE  119 


Then  she  was  asked  and  told  news  of  Paul,  and  this 
information  was  given  and  accepted  rather  coldly,  for 
Paul  was  not  a  favourite  with  his  brother  and  sisters, 
and  their  interest  was  only  conventional. 

"I  believe  he  did  rather  well  in  something;  I  forget 
what,  copper  or  something,  last  week,"  Mrs.  Walbridge 
explained.  "He's  bought  a  lovely  teapot  with  flowers 
all  over  it,  and  a  picture — a  water-colour  of  Venice  that 
he  says  will  be  worth  double  what  he  paid  for  it  in  a  few 
years." 

"Grisel's  having  a  grand  time,"  one  of  the  young 
women  exclaimed  towards  the  end  of  the  lunch.  "Elsie 
Ford  is  jolly  good  to  her." 

Her  mother's  delicate  eyebrows  stirred  a  little  ruefully. 
"I  don't  like  this  new  custom  of  taking  presents  from 
one's  friends,"  she  said. 

"Nonsense,  mother.  Everybody  does  it,  and  Elsie's 
so  rich  it  doesn't  matter  to  her  what  she  gives  away.  Do 
you  remember  how  we  despised  her  for  marrying  Fred 
Ford,  Hermy?" 

Hermione  nodded.  "Yes;  he  was  dreadful  in  those 
days,  wasn't  he?  There  wasn't  a  decent  *o'  in  him. 
Real  cockney." 

"She's  toned  him  down  a  lot,  though,"  put  in  the 
other,  "and  he  has  a  trick  of  picking  up  smart  slang — 
really  good  slang,  you  know — that  makes  him  quite 
possible.  When's  the  kid  coming  home,  mum?" 

"A  few  days  before  Christmas.  I  had  a  letter  from 
her  yesterday.  They  are  doing  a  lot  of  motoring,  which, 
of  course,  Grisel  loves.  There's  an  old  gentleman  named 
Barclay  who  is  very  kind  to  her,"  she  said. 

Hermione  Gaskell-Walker  burst  out  laughing.  "You'll 
be  having  the  kind  old  gentleman  for  a  son-in-law  if  you 


120 HAPPY  HOUSE 

don't  look  out,  you  innocent  old  pet,"  she  said,  lighting 
her  coffee  machine,  and  blowing  out  the  match.  "Elsie 
told  me — I  met  her  the  other  day  in  Harrod's  when  she 
came  up  for  that  special  performance  at  His  Majesty's — 
that  the  old  man  was  crazy  about  the  kid,  and,"  she 
added  with  satisfaction,  "rolling — simply  rolling." 

Her  mother  looked  bewildered.     "Rolling ?" 

"In  money,  dear.  He's  extremely  rich — cattle,  I  think, 
in  Argentina.  She  always  was  the  best-looking  of  the 
three  of  us,  so  it's  only  fair  she  should  make  the  best 
match." 

Maud  interrupted  her  indignantly.  "Best  match, 
indeed!  An  old  man  like  that.  How  sickening  of  you, 
Hermy.  I  wouldn't  give  up  Moreton  for  all  the  million- 
aires in  the  world." 

Mrs.  Walbridge  patted  her  hand.  "That's  right, 
dear,"  she  murmured,  and  Mrs.  Gaskell-Walker  looked  a 
litttle  ashamed  of  herself. 

"You  needn't  think  I'm  not  fond  of  Billy,  for  I  am. 
He's  absolutely  perfect.  I  was  only  speaking  from  the 
worldly  point  of  view,  and  it  would  be  funny  if  the  kid 
should  burst  out  into  a  title,  and  millions,  while  Moreton 
is  hunting  illusive  patients,  and  Billy  worrying  himself 
dead  on  the  Stock  Exchange." 

After  lunch  Mrs.  Walbridge  was  taken  over  the  house, 
which  was  very  comfortable  and  full  of  things  that  she 
supposed  must  be  beautiful,  although  to  her  they  were 
for  the  most  part  grotesque,  if  not  ugly.  The  mattresses, 
and  such  homely  appurtenances,  were  oldish,  she  found, 
and  rather  shabby,  but  everything  downstairs  was 
imposing,  and  that,  Hermione  thought,  was  the  chief 
thing. 

"By  the  way,  mother,"  the  young  wife  burst  out  as 


HAPPY  HOUSE  121 


they  came  down  the  steep  staircase,  "what  about  that 
Wick  man?  There's  not  going  to  be  any  trouble  with 
him,  I  hope?" 

"Trouble?" 

"Yes,  with  Grisel,  I  mean.  Billy  took  a  fancy  to  him 
rather,  and  asked  him  to  come  and  see  us,  so  he  turned 
up  the  other  Sunday  for  supper.  He's  very  nice.  We 
both  liked  him,  but  there's  something  very  odd  about 
him,  don't  you  think?" 

Maud  laughed.  "It's  only  that  he  says  all  the  things 
that  most  people  only  think." 

"I  like  him,"  Mrs.  Walbridge  announced  firmly.  "I 
like  him  very  much.  Did  he  say  anything  to  you  about 
Griselda,  Hermy — or  to  Billy?" 

"No,  not  exactly.  But  when  he  talked  about  the 
future,  and  he  always  does  talk  about  the  future  (I 
never  knew  anyone  who  seemed  to  have  less  use  for 
the  past,  or  even  the  present),  he  seemed  to  assume 
that  she  would  always  be  there,  with  him,  I  mean." 

"He's  asked  her  to  marry  him,  and  she's  refused  him." 

"Really?  He  doesn't  seem  much  cast  down  by  it. 
I  never  saw  a  more  cheery  person  in  my  life.  Billy  says 
he'll  be  a  great  success  some  day." 

Maud  went  part  of  the  way  home  with  her  mother, 
and  asked  her  again  for  the  loan.  Mrs.  Walbridge 
hesitated. 

"I  don't  quite  see  how  I  can,  dear,"  she  said  behind 
her  muff,  for  they  were  in  a  bus.  "My — my  last  book 
has  not  sold  quite  so  well  as  the  others." 

Maud  nodded.  "I've  seen  some  of  the  notices. 
Awfully  sorry,  dear.  By  the  way,  why  don't  you  try 
to  brighten  up  your  style  a  little?  They're  awfully 


122  HAPPY  HOUSE 


sweet  and  all  that,  but  they  are  a  little  old-fashioned, 
you  know." 

"I — I  tried  to  brighten  up  'Lord  Effingham,'  "  her 
mother  faltered,  and  Maud  laughed  with  kindly  meant 
amusement  that  cut  deep. 

"  'Lord  Effingham'  really  was  the  limit.  That  baby 
was  most  shocking.  We  blushed  for  you,  Moreton  and 
I.  Moreton  says  he  thinks  you  don't  read  enough  of 
the  new  stuff.  Oh,  I  don't  mean  really  good  stuff,  like 
Wells  and  May  Sinclair  and  that  lot,  but  the  second-rate 
ones  that  sell  so  well — Mrs.  Llovitt  and  Austen  Good- 
heart,  and  so  on.  This  Bell  woman,  too — what's  her 
name? — Beryl  J.  Bell.  I  don't  think  her  book  is  really 
better  than  yours,  but  every  second  person  one  meets  is 
reading  it." 

Before  they  parted  she  returned  again  to  the  question 
of  the  loan. 

"If  you  possibly  can  you'll  let  me  have  it,  won't  you? 
We  really  are  rather  at  our  wits'  end.  Everyone  is  so 
dreadfully  healthy  just  now,  and  the  rent  is  pretty  bad 
— quarter-day  coming.  I  do  want  some  pretty  things 
for  little  Violet.  I  should  hate  her  to  wear  Hilary's 
left-offs." 

A  little  smile,  that  was  almost  whimsical,  touched  Mrs. 
Walbridge's  flexible  lips. 

"My  children  all  wore  each  other's  left-offs,"  she  said 
softly,  "and  it  didn't  seem  to  hurt  them.  Grisel  looked 
very  sweet  in  your  long  robes.  However,  I'll  see  what 
I  can  do,  darling,  and  I  can  let  you  have  twenty-five — 
only  don't  mention  it  to  Paul,  will  you  ?" 

She  changed  buses  at  Oxford  Circus,  and  after  waiting 
a  long  time  on  the  corner,  she  gave  up  trying  to  force 
her  way  into  the  overcrowded  buses  (for  she  hadn't  the 


HAPPY  HOUSE  123 


gift  of  crowds)  and  walked  home.  It  was  nearly  tea- 
time  when  she  reached  Happy  House,  and  after  a  hasty 
cup  of  tea  she  went  up  to  her  little  attic  study  and  sat 
down  to  work. 

When  Paul  came  home  at  dinner-time  he  was  not 
unreasonably  annoyed  to  find  his  mother  still  writing. 

"Do  come  down,"  he  called.  "Dinner's  on  the  table, 
and  I'm  hungry." 

When  she  appeared,  he  looked  with  distaste  at  her 
ruffled  hair  and  ink-stained  finger. 

"Really,  mother,"  he  exclaimed  irritably,  "I  do  think 
you  might  manage  to  be  in  time  for  meals.  It's  disgust- 
ing to  a  man  to  get  home  and  have  to  wait  for  his  food." 

"I  shan't  be  a  minute,  dear,"  she  said.  "I  must  just 
wash  my  hands  and  brush  my  hair." 

"Oh,  bother  your  hands  and  your  hair;  come  along. 
I'm  going  to  the  play — gallery — with  Bruce  Collier,  to 
the  Coliseum,  so  I  shan't  have  to  dress,  but  I've  very 
little  time." 

Mrs.  Walbridge  was  a  careful  housekeeper,  but  things 
will  go  wrong  sometimes  in  every  house,  and  this  was 
one  of  those  occasions  for  her.  She  had  a  new  cook 
whom  she  ought,  she  knew,  to  have  superintended,  but 
the  call  of  her  book  had  been  too  loud  and  she  had  for- 
gotten all  about  dinner.  The  soup  was  lumpy  and  luke- 
warm, and  the  leg  of  mutton  quivering  and  purple.  Paul 
watched  it  as  she  cut  the  first  slice  (she  always  did  the 
carving),  and  threw  down  his  napkin  angrily. 

"Raw  meat — that's  really  too  much!  I'll  go  to  the 
club  and  get  a  sandwich." 

Tears  rose  to  her  eyes.  "Oh,  Paul,  I  am  sorry,  very 
sorry,"  she  cried,  "and  I  don't  wonder  you're  annoyed, 
but  don't  go.  Let  me  make  you  a  Welsh  rabbit." 


124  HAPPY  HOUSE 


He  shook  his  head  and  rose.     "No,  no.     I'd  rather 

go" 

"I — I — it  was  my  fault,"  she  went  on.  "I  got  so 
interested  in  my  book  that  I  utterly  forgot  dinner." 

At  the  door  he  turned  and  looked  back  at  her  pitilessly. 

"Your  book!  If  your  books  were  worth  while  there'd 
be  some  excuse  for  artistic  absent-mindedness,  but  con- 
sidering the  stuff  you  turn  out,  I  shouldn't  think  such 
mundane  details  as  soup  and  mutton  need  be  so  infinitely 
beneath  you." 


Mrs.  Walbridge  sat  still  for  several  minutes,  staring 
at  the  closed  door,  a  strange  look  on  her  pale  face. 
Presently  she  rose,  the  look  in  her  eyes  intensifying, 
almost  solidifying,  to  one  that  would  immeasurably  have 
astonished  her  son  if  he  could  have  seen  it.  Lighting 
a  lamp,  she  went  quickly  upstairs  to  her  little  writing 
room,  and,  unfastening  the  buttons  of  her  right  sleeve, 
freeing  her  wrist,  she  took  up  her  pen  and  began  to  write. 
Day  had  begun  to  light  her  square  of  sky  when  she  crept 
down  quietly  to  bed  the  next  morning. 


CHAPTER  XII 

A  FEW  days  before  Christmas  Ferdinand  Walbridge  and 
his  youngest  daughter  came  home.  It  was  over  two 
months  since  his  wife  had  seen  him,  and  she  was  very 
much  struck  by  his  look  of  health  and  youth. 

"The  sea  air  has  done  you  a  world  of  good,  Ferdie," 
she  commented  gently. 

He  shot  a  quick  glance  at  her  out  of  marvellously 
cleared  and  unswollen  eyes. 

"Torquay  agrees  with  me,"  he  answered  shortly; 
"always  did." 

Then  he  told  her  with  genuine  pleasure — for,  like  so 
many  men  with  whom  selfishness  is  almost  a  disease,  he 
liked  spending  money,  and  was  rather  generous  than 
otherwise — that  he  had  made  a  good  thing  from  a  tip 
in  copper,  given  him  by  a  friend  in  Torquay. 

"Sir  John  Barclay,"  he  explained.  "Grisel  will  have 
written  you  about  him." 

She  nodded.    "Oh,  yes.    The  kind  old  gentleman." 

"Exactly,  the  kind  old  gentleman."  He  laughed. 
"He  and  I  are  very  friendly,  and,  as  I  say,  he  put  me 
on  to  this  thing,  and  I  cleared  a  couple  of  hundred 
pounds." 

She  was  about  to  ask  him  if  he  couldn't  manage  some 
of  the  quarterly  bills  with  part  6f  the  money,  when  he 
cut  the  ground  from  under  her  feet  by  taking  from  his 
pocket  five  five-pound  notes  and  handing  them  to  her. 

"That's  just  a  little  present  for  you,  old  girl,"  he 
said,  "to  help  you  out  with  Christmas." 

125 


126  HAPPY  HOUSE 


Before  she  had  finished  thanking  him,  the  house  door 
had  banged  behind  him. 

Grisel  had  not  arrived  yet,  as  she  was  coming  by  car 
with  the  Fords,  who  were  spending  Christmas  at  the 
Savoy,  and  Mrs.  Walbridge  ran  out  and  bought  some 
flowers  to  decorate  the  girl's  room. 

She  had  not  forgiven  Paul  for  the  episode  of  the 
underdone  mutton.  He  had  hurt  her  many  times  before, 
but  he  had  never  so  thoroughly  disgusted  her,  and  her 
indignation,  that  she  knew  to  be  justified  and  fair,  was 
in  an  odd  way  a  strength  to  her.  She  had  worked  for 
hours  every  day  on  her  new  book,  and  was  behindhand  in 
consequence  with  her  Christmas  plans,  but  Grisel  must 
have  flowers.  She  spent  nearly  three  pounds  of  the 
twenty-five  her  husband  had  given  her  at  the  beautiful 
shop  in  Baker  Street,  and  then,  because  she  was  afraid 
of  crushing  them,  took  a  taxi  home,  and  was  met  by  a 
look  of  cold  raillery  by  Paul,  who  was  letting  himself 
into  the  house  with  his  latchkey  as  she  drove  up. 

'"I  hope  Lubbock  &  Payne  are  paying  you  well  for 
the  new  masterpiece,"  he  said,  as  she  came  up  the  steps 
laden  with  flowers.  He  was  surprised  at  the  look  she 
gave  him  in  return. 

"Your  father  made  me  a  present  this  morning/'  she 
said  quietly,  "and  if  I  choose  to  buy  flowers  with  some 
of  it  that  doesn't  concern  you,  my  dear  Paul." 

Up  in  the  girls'  room  (as  the  upstairs  sitting-room  was 
still  called,  although  only  one  girl  was  left)  she  had 
half  an  hour  of  real  pleasure,  filling  vases  with  water 
and  arranging  flowers  to  the  best  advantage.  She  was 
passionatey  devoted  to  the  pretty  things,  but  for  many 
years  now  had  had  to  give  up  buying  them,  or  trying 
to  keep  growing  things  in  the  house.  Growing  plants 


HAPPY  HOUSE  127 


need  care  and  time,  and  Mrs.  Walbridge  had  little  leisure 
for  such  delightful  attentions. 

But  now  Grisel  was  coming  home,  so  she  felt  perfectly 
satisfied  in  spending  such  an  enormous  sum  of  money 
as  nearly  three  pounds  on  adorning  the  girl's  room. 

Her  husband  had  not  known  at  what  time  the  Fords 
and  their  guest  would  reach  London.  They  would,  no 
doubt,  lunch  on  the  way,  and  as  Sir  John  Barclay  was 
coming  up  with  them,  they  would  probably  stop  to  ex- 
plore any  old  churches  they  might  pass.  He  had  a  passion 
for  routing  about  in  chilly,  romantic  old  churches. 

"Fond  of  arches,  and  architecture,  and  flying  but- 
tresses and  things,"  he  added,  with  the  pleasant  disdain 
of  one  to  whom  those  chaste  joys  make  no  appeal. 

So,  when  the  flowers  were  arranged,  and  the  blinds 
drawn  down,  and  the  fire  lit,  Mrs.  Walbridge  went  to 
her  own  room  and  put  on  her  only  afternoon  dress.  It 
looked  very  shabby,  she  thought,  as  she  stood  in  front 
of  the  glass.  It  had  never  been  much  of  a  frock,  and 
she  had  worn  it  and  worn  it  and  worn  it.  It  was  of 
black  silk,  of  some  thin,  papery  kind  that  looked  cracked 
in  a  strong  light,  and  the  sleeves  were  very  old-fashioned, 
with  something  wrong  about  the  shoulders.  She  sighed 
a  little,  and  then  gave  her  pretty  curly  hair  a  last  smooth 
of  the  brush  and  went  downstairs. 

She  was  a  little  anxious  lest  one  of  the  children-  might 
notice  the  absence  of  her  rings,  and  the  seed  pearl  ear- 
rings, which,  being  one  of  her  husband's  very  few  gifts, 
were  a  part  of  her  immemorial  gala  attire;  she  was 
almost  sure  that  he  would  notice  their  absence,  and  she 
felt  that  she  would  die  with  shame  if  any  of  them  knew 
about  the  pawning. 

The    new    cook    had    produced    some    unexpectedly 


128  HAPPY  HOUSE 


tempting-looking  cakes,  and  Jessie,  much  elated  by  her 
reinstatement  as  a  one- job  woman,  was  waiting  in  all 
the  glories  of  new  cap  and  apron,  to  open  the  door  to 
Miss  Griselda,  while  the  mistress,  in  the  dreary  drawing- 
room,  sat  down  by  the  fire  to  wait  for  her  daughter. 

She  was  lost  in  thought  over  her  new  book,  which 
was  engrossing  her  very  deeply.  She  heard  a  sudden 
knocking  on  the  glass  panel  of  the  house  door,  and 
jumped  up  and  ran  to  open  the  door,  flinging  out  her 
arms  and  crying: 

"Oh,  my  darling!" 

"Thanks,  Mrs.  Walbridge.  I  like  being  called  your 
darling.  You  might  kiss  me  too,  if  you  don't  mind. 
It's  Christmas  time." 

Oliver  Wick  laughed  cheerfully  as  the  little  lady 
started  back  in  fright.  "That's  what  I  call  a  nice  warm 
welcome,"  the  young  man  went  on,  following  her  into 
the  hall  and  hanging  up  his  hat. 

"Then  she  hasn't  come?  May  I  come  in  and  wait? 
I've  really  come  to  see  her,  you  know,  but  I've  got  a 
very  decent  excuse — a  note  from  my  mother,  saying 
how  delighted  we  shall  be  to  dine  with  you  on  Christmas 
Eve."  He  produced  a  letter  and  followed  his  hostess 
into  the  drawing-room,  carrying  something  that  looked 
like  a  small  hatbox  with  great  care. 

Mrs.  Walbridge  read  the  note  and  expressed  her  satis- 
faction at  its  contents. 

"What  have  you  got  in  that  box,"  she  added. 

"Flowers  for  Grisel,"  he  answered  promptly.  "Beau- 
ties. Just  look."  He  raised  the  lid  of  his  box  and 
showed  her  an  enormous  bunch  of  closely  packed  Parma 
violets.  "Aren't  they  lovely?"  he  asked,  beaming  with 
pleasure,  "and  won't  she  love  them?" 


HAPPY  HOUSE  129 


"She  will  indeed.  Let's  go  upstairs  and  put  them  in 
water,  shall  we?" 

And  thus  it  was  that  when  Griselda  Walbridge  reached 
home  after  having  stayed  nearly  two  months  with  the 
Freddie  Fords  at  Conroy  Hall,  Torquay,  she  found 
Mr.  Wick  awaiting  her  with  a  curious  air  of  belonging 
to  the  household  as  much,  or  even  more,  than  she  did. 

"You're  fatter,"  he  said,  looking  at  her  critically,  his 
small  eyes  shut  as  if  she  were  a  picture  and  he  an  expert, 
"and  you've  got  that  nasty  red  stuff  on  your  lips.  Oh, 
fie!" 

Mrs.  Walbridge  watched  them  happily,  as  she  leant 
back  in  Hermione's  favourite  old  chair  by  the  fire.  There 
was  something  in  this  friendly,  busy  youth  that  she 
loved.  He  gave  her  a  safe  feeling,  and  she  decided,  as 
she  watched  his  sparring  with  her  daughter,  that  she 
would  be  glad  to  see  Grisel  safely  married  to  him.  He 
was  poor,  she  knew,  but  she  had  unconsciously  accepted 
his  own  ideas  about  his  future,  and  knew  that  his  poverty 
was  merely  a  temporary  thing,  and  that  he  was  headed 
straight  for  power  and  wealth.  Besides,  power  and 
wealth  were  not  things  that  she  had  ever  greatly  valued. 

Grisel  was  thinner,  she  went  on  thinking.  She  looked 
taller  in  her  beautifully  fitting  chestnut  brown  skirt  and 
chiffon  tan  blouse.  The  girl  had  changed.  She  looked 
more  grown  up,  more  of  what  her  mother  innocently 
characterised  as  "a  society  girl."  Her  manner,  too,  was 
different.  She  seemed  at  once  a  little  bored  and  excited 
about  something. 

She  had  opened  her  dressing-case  and  taken  out  a 
variety  of  little  belongings  and  was  darting  about  the 
room  like,  her  mother  thought,  a  swallow,  settling  these 
things  in  their  old  places.  A  handsomely  framed  photo- 


I3Q HAPPY  HOUSE 

graph  of  her  father  (his  gift  on  her  last  birthday)  she 
put  on  the  mantelpiece,  and  turned  with  a  little  laugh. 

"Isn't  Dad  looking  splendid,"  she  said.  "He's  been 
motoring  a  lot,  you  know,  and  it's  done  him  a  world  of 
good." 

"Oh,  I  didn't  know  he  went  with  you,"  her  mother 
observed,  surprised.  Grisel  took  a  little  silver  and 
enamel  cigarette  box  out  of  her  pocket  and  put  it  on 
the  table. 

"He  didn't  go  with  us,"  she  answered  carelessly.  "The 
Crichells  had  their  car,  you  know,  and  he  and  Clara 
used  to  knock  about  a  bit." 

"Surely,  my  dear,  you  don't  call  Mrs.  Crichell  by  her 
Christian  name?" 

"Don't  I?  I  call  everybody  by  their  Christian  names 
— everyone  does.  The  old  ones  hate  being  'Miss-ed' — 
reminds  them  of  their  age,  you  see.  Even  Elsie's  mother 
hated  being  called  Mrs.  Hulbert,  but,  of  course,  I 
wouldn't  call  her  Pansy!  She  really  is  old.  Must  be 
as  old  as  you,  dear,  though  I  must  say  she  doesn't  look 
it." 

Oliver  Wick  glanced  quickly  at  Mrs.  Walbridge,  but 
looked  away  in  relief,  for  he  saw  that  she  was  untouched 
by  the  girl's  careless  remark,  and  he  realised  with  a  pang 
of  satisfaction  that  her  sensitiveness  lay  far  from  such 
matters  as  age  and  looks. 

"Did  you  see  much  of  that  Mrs.  Crichell?"  he  asked, 
as  she  sat  down  and  lit  a  cigarette.  She  laughed. 

"Yes.  I  know  you  hate  her,  but  she's  really  not  so 
bad,  and  Mr.  Crichell  and  she  entertained  a  good  deal. 
They  had  an  awfully  nice  house  there." 

"I  don't  hate  her,"  said  Oliver  Wick  quietly,  "but 
she's  vulgar,  and  too  idle  and  empty-headed  to  be  much 


HAPPY  HOUSE  131 


good,  or  happy.  Women  like  that  are  always  on  the 
edge  of  making  beasts  of  themselves,  even  if  they  don't 
do  it." 

"Oh,  a  Daniel  come  to  judgment!"  she  jeered.  "You 
seem  very  wise,  this  afternoon." 

"Yes,"  he  answered  drily.  "I'm  always  rather  sage 
on  Saturdays.  Friday's  pay  day,  you  know,  at  my  shop, 
and  nothing  makes  a  man  feel  so  wise  as  money  in  his 
breeches  pocket.  You,"  he  added,  "have,  on  the  con- 
trary, gained  chiefly  in  folly,  I  should  say." 

She  laughed.    "Have  I  ?    I'm  not  at  all  sure  of  that." 

There  was  something  thoughtful  in  her  voice  and  face, 
and  her  mother  looked  at  her  wonderingly. 

Oliver's  face  was  imperturbable.  "Who's  the  man?" 
he  asked,  and  she  actually  jumped,  so  that  her  cigarette 
fell  out  of  her  amber  holder  to  the  floor. 

"What  d'you  say?"  she  asked,  as  she  picked  up  the 
cigarette.  "Who  was  the  what?" 

"Man — the  man  you're  contemplating  marrying?" 

All  that  there  was  of  the  new  and  ;the  strange  in 
Griselda  seemed  to  her  mother  to  flower  in  her  answer  to 
the  young  man's  question. 

She  threw  back  her  head  and  laughed,  her  pretty 
throat  shown  to  the  best  advantage  as  she  did  so.  Then 
coolly  looking  at  Wick  from  under  her  lashes  in  a  con- 
sciously attractive  way,  she  drawled: 

"I'm  not  going  to  tell  you  his  name,  though  you're 
perfectly  right,  oh  shrewd  young  knight  of  the  fountain 
pen." 

Wick  was  shrewd,  but  he  was  also  very  young,  and 
Mrs.  Walbridge  felt  a  little  pang  of  pain  as  she  saw  how 
white  he  had  grown  and  what  a  smitten  look  had  come 
to  his  face.  After  a  second  he  rallied,  and  lit  a  cigarette, 


132  HAPPY  HOUSE 


bait  he  had  been  badly  hurt,  and  his  face  showed  it  as 
he  said,  with  a  laugh: 

"That's  a  phase  all  attractive  young  girls  go  through 
— trying  to  make  up  their  minds  to  marry  some  rich  man 
they  don't  like,  before  they  have  the  sense  to  settle  down 
with  the  handsome  object  of  their  true  affections." 

"The  object  being  you,  I  suppose?"  she  retorted. 

"Grisel,  Grisel,"  her  mother  protested  gently.  "You 
really  go  too  far,  my  dear." 

The  girl  laughed.  "Poor  mother.  You're  longing  to 
tell  me  it  isn't  womanly,  aren't  you?  But  it's  very 
kind  of  you  to  have  brought  me  the  violets,  Oliver,  and 

I'm  glad  to  see  you,  and  all  that "  She  held  out  her 

hand  carelessly,  with  something  of  the  air  of  a  stage 
queen,  "but  I'm  dining  out,  and  must  have  a  talk  with 
mother  before  I  dress,  so  I'm  afraid  you  must  go  now." 

He  rose  at  once,  apologising  nervously  and  sensitively 
for  having  stayed  too  long,  and  Mrs.  Walbridge  went 
down  to  the  door  with  him.  He  was  very  slow  in  getting 
into  his  coat,  and  she  purposely  did  not  look  at  him. 
She  knew  he  was  suffering,  and  she  had  an  absurd  feeling 
that  he  was  hers,  that  she  had  written  him — that  she 
knew  exactly  what  he  was  going  through,  and  what  he 
was  going  to  do. 

Then  he  opened  the  door  and  turned  round,  grinning 
broadly  and  holding  out  his  hand. 

"She  got  the  first  one  in  that  round,  didn't  she?"  he 
asked.  "Never  mind,  I'll  get  her  yet,  the  young  minx! 
Oh,  my  word,"  he  added,  relapsing  suddenly  into  help- 
less, conscious  pathos:  "What  a  little  beauty  she  is! 
My  knees  feel  like  wet  tissue  paper." 

Before  she  could  speak  he  had  bent  and  kissed  her 
(for  though  he  was  not  very  tall,  he  was  taller  than  she), 
and  was  gone  into  the  darkness. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE  Christmas  Eve  dinner  party  was  rather  a  large  one. 
Hermione  and  her  husband  could  not  come,  as  they 
were  obliged  to  dine  with  relations  of  the  Gaskell- 
Walkers.  But  the  Twiss's  were  there,  and  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Crichell,  and  Paul  and  the  Wicks,  and,  to  Griselda's 
joy,  the  great  Bruce  Collier  honoured  them  with  his 
presence.  She  knew  that  this  condescension  was  due  to 
his  having  onoe  met  her  coming  out  of  the  house  when 
he  was  on  his  way  to  see  Paul. 

Walbridge  had,  as  usual,  helped  by  spending  all  his 
available  money  on  things  of  a  showy  and  convivial 
nature.  The  quarterly  gas  bill  was  still  unpaid,  and  he 
was  having  serious  trouble  with  his  tailor,  but  he  had 
sent  in  a  case  of  champagne,  and  a  box  of  the  best  cigars 
money  could  buy,  and  all  sorts  of  impressive,  though 
unnecessary  dainties,  such  as  caviare,  pate  de  foie, 
brandied  cherries,  oysters  and  so  on,  besides  a  fifteen- 
pound  turkey,  which  quite  put  out  of  joint,  as  Grisel 
expressed  it,  "the  pope's  nose  of  the  poor  little  eleven- 
pounder  mother  had  bought  for  the  occasion." 

Ferdie  had  been  very  fussy  and  tiresome  ever  since  he 
came  back  from  Torquay,  and  at  the  last  minute,  dis- 
trustful of  the  new  cook's  powers,  he  had  insisted  on 
getting  a  woman  in  for  the  Christmas  Eve  dinner.  The 
permanent  cook  wept  all  day,  and  went  through  the  usual 
procedure  of  reproaches  and  threats,  but  she  finally 
quieted  down,  by  the  help  of  a  bottle  of  port,  and  the 
dinner  really  was  excellent. 

133 


134  HAPPY  HOUSE 


At  the  last  minute  the  table  had  had  to  be  redecorated, 
because  Ferdie  had  been  seized  with  a  desire  to  have 
orchids.  Mrs.  Walbridge  sat  patiently  by  and  watched 
him  remove  her  time-honoured  design  of  holly  and 
mistletoe  and  smilax,  and  then  arrange  the  lovely  purple 
and  mauve  things  that  she  now  saw  for  the  first  time  in 
her  life  without  a  shop  front  between  her  and  them. 
She  dared  not  ask  the  price;  she  dared  not  offer  to  help 
him,  for  he  was  extraordinarily  irritable,  and  in  spite  of 
his  look  of  renewed  health  and  youth,  moved  to  violent 
invective  by  the  slightest  word  or  suggestion.  She 
watched  him  now  as  he  darted  from  side  to  side  of  the 
table  trying  the  effect  of  the  different  clear-glass  vases, 
full  of  the  expensive  flowers  that  his  wife  privately 
thought  so  much  less  lovely  than  roses  or  sweat  peas. 

He  was  looking  very  handsome,  and  had  certainly 
renewed  his  youth  in  a  way  that  made  her  feel,  as  she 
raised  her  eyes  to  the  glass  that  always  hung  opposite 
his  place  at  table,  that  she  looked  older  and  more  dowdy 
than  ever.  And  yet  there  was  something  in  his  face 
that  displeased  her,  and  seemed  to  give  her  an  odd  kind 
of  warning.  After  a  while  she  rose  and  went  quietly 
to  the  door. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  he  asked  sharply. 

"I'm  going  up  to  write  a  little." 

"Oh,  rubbish !  Go  down  to  the  kitchen  and  make  sure 
that  everything's  all  right.  That's  far  more  important." 

"I've  been  down  to  the  kitchen,"  she  answered  gently, 
with  something  in  her  eyes  that  disconcerted  him. 
"Everything  is  all  right,  and  as  you  are  going  to  arrange 
the  seats  I'm  going  to  write  for  a  while." 

She  went  upstairs  and  closed  the  door,  and  sat  down 
before  her  work-table,  where  her  lamp  always  stood 


HAPPY  HOUSE  135 


nowadays  filled  and  trimmed,  with  a  box  of  matches 
by  its  side. 


Old  Mrs.  Wick,  rather  imposing  in  grey,  with  some 
fine  lace,  and  a  cap,  and  a  handsome  old  brooch  of  Irish 
paste  and  black  enamel,  necessarily  sat  on  Ferdie  Wai- 
bridge's  right  at  dinner.  Mrs.  Crichell,  very  handsome 
in  jade  green  velvet,  sat  on  his  left,  as  she  had  sat,  Oliver 
remembered,  from  his  place  on  Mrs.  Walbridge's  left, 
that  night  in  the  early  autumn,  when  he  had  first  dined 
at  the  house. 

Oliver  was  very  proud  of  his  old  mother,  and  with 
good  reason,  for  her  plain,  strong  face  was  by  far  the 
most  arresting,  apart  from  the  mere  fact  of  superficial 
beauty,  at  the  table.  His  little  sister  too,  whose  soft 
red  hair  foamed  over  her  head  like  scarlet  soap-suds, 
bore  the  proximity  of  three  very  good-looking  young 
women  remarkably  well.  She  was  plainly  by  far  the 
most  intelligent  of  the  four,  and  once  or  twice  when 
the  celebrated  Mr.  Collier  laid  down  the  law  with  even 
more  than  his  usual  cocksureness,  little  Jenny  dashed  in, 
as  her  delighted  brother  thought,  and  wiped  the  floor 
with  him.  He  was  a  pretentious,  posing  man,  Mr.  Col- 
lier, disposing  of  such  writers  as  Thomas  Hardy  and 
Meredith  with  a  few  words  of  amused  contempt. 

"Hardy  has  talent,"  he  said,  screwing  his  glass  in  his 
eye,  and  studying  Griselda's  charming  face  with  relish. 
"Of  course,  he  writes  well,  but  he's  very  old-fashioned, 
and  far  too  long-winded.  There's  not  one  of  his  boqks 
that  would  not  be  better  for  a  little  judicious  paring 
down." 


i36  HAPPY  HOUSE 


"And  who;"  put  in  Jenny  Wick's  high,  clear  voice, 
"whom  do  you  suggest  as  a  parer?" 

Collier  glared  at  her,  and  Paul  who,  for  some  reason, 
had  hardly  taken  his  eyes  off  his  red-headed  vis-a-vis, 
gave  a  sudden  laugh,  although  he  had  had  no  intention 
of  doing  so. 

"I  like  your  sister,"  Maud  Twiss  said  pleasantly,  turn- 
ing to  Oliver,  and  speaking  in  an  undertone.  "She's  a 
dear  little  thing." 

"Isn't  she,"  he  answered,  "very  like  me,  don't  you 
think?" 

And  Maud,  who  knew  him  less  well  than  the  other 
members  of  the  family,  was  a  little  disconcerted,  and 
blushed.  She  looked  very  handsome  when  she  blushed, 
and  Crichell  leant  across  the  table  to  her,  waving  those 
white  hands  of  his  in  the  way  that  was  so  singularly 
distasteful  to  Wick.  Once  more  the  young  man  was 
reminded  of  things  sprouting  in  dark  places,  and  then 
his  quick  imagination  improved  on  this  crude  vision, 
and  he  seemed  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  blind  sea-worms 
writhing  in  some  sunless  cavern. 

"When  are  you  going  to  sit  to  me,  Mrs.  Twiss?"  the 
painter  asked.  But  Twiss,  who  sat  the  other  side  of 
Jenny,  leant  over  and  answered  for  his  wife. 

"Never,  Mr.  Crichell.    She's  no  time  for  portraits." 

Paul,  who  disliked  his  younger  brother-in-law,  sneered 
at  this,  and  Maud  saw  him. 

"I  saw  you  yesterday,  Paul,"  she  said,  without  lower- 
ing her  voice.  "You  didn't  see  me,  did  you?" 

He  turned  to  her  with  a  little  snarl.  "Yesterday  ?  No, 
I  didn't." 

"I  thought  not.  I  was  lunching  at  the  Piccadilly  Grill 
with  Elynor  Twiss." 


HAPPY  HOUSE  137 


Paul  didn't  answer,  but  he  turned  to  Mrs.  Wick  and 
made  some  unimportant  remark  to  her.  The  old  lady 
was  amused  by  the  situation,  and  she  did  not  like  Paul, 
whereas  Maud  struck  her  as  a  kind,  pretty  young  woman 
who  ought  to  be  aided  and  abetted  in  her  attack  on  a 
disagreeable,  pettish-minded  brother. 

"No,"  she  returned,  in  her  sonorous  voice,  "I  never 
did.  Do  you  often  go  to  the  Piccadilly  Grill,  Mr.  Wai- 
bridge?  I  was  there  with  Oliver  the  other  day." 

Paul  was  furious.  He  didn't  mind  bear  baiting,  but 
he  did  object  to  being  the  bear,  and  Oliver,  who  knew  his 
mother  and  her  wicked  ways,  and  who  had  also  caught 
a  pained  look  in  Mrs.  Walbridge's  eyes,  leaned  across 
Maud  and  made  a  sign  to  the  old  lady.  The  sign  con- 
sisted of  slipping  the  forefinger  of  his  right  hand  down 
into  his  collar  and  giving  it  a  jerk  as  if  he  felt  a  little 
breathless.  Mrs.  Wick  laughed.  She  loved  teasing,  but 
this  was  an  old  signal  used  only  when  Oliver  felt  that 
she  really  had  gone  far  enough.  So  she  nodded  good- 
humouredly  at  her  son  and  let  the  subject  of  the  Picca- 
dilly Grill  drop. 

After  that  the  dinner  went  on  pleasantly  enough,  and 
Mrs.  Walbridge  saw  with  pleasure  that  Ferdie  really 
seemed  to  be  enjoying  himself.  Mr.  Walbridge,  like 
everybody  else,  had  the  qualities  of  his  defects,  and  he 
was  a  very  good  host. 

Mrs.  Wick  was  old  and  plain,  and  did  not  interest  him 
in  the  least,  but  she  was  his  guest,  and  he  was  charming 
to  her — charming,  that  is,  as  far  as  a  man  may  be  said 
to  be  charming  to  a  woman  who  is  not  at  all  charmed 
by  him.  Pretty  Mrs.  Crichell,  on  his  left,  talked  a  good 
deal  to  Moreton  Twiss,  who  admired  and  took  pleasure 
in  her  beauty,  as  every  man  ought  always  to  admire  and 


138  HAPPY  HOUSE 


take  pleasure  in  the  beauty  of  any  pretty  woman.  To 
do  them  justice,  most  of  them  do. 

Grisel,  of  all  the  people  at  the  table,  seemed  the  least 
amused,  Wick  thought.  Mr.  Collier  plainly  admired  her, 
but  she  seemed  to  derive  less  satisfaction  from  this  cir- 
cumstance than  might  have  been  expected,  and  he  knew 
that  she  had  never  liked  Crichell,  who  sat  on  her  right. 
When  her  brilliant  little  face  was  in  repose,  it  had  a  new 
look  of  fatigue  and  boredom.  Wick  watched  her  con- 
stantly throughout  dinner,  for  he  was  hampered  by  no 
wish  to  conceal  his  admiration,  and  he  came  to  the  con- 
clusion that  she  was  not  only  preoccupied,  but  worried 
about  something.  He  wondered  if  Walbridge  knew  the 
cause  of  this  worry,  for  the  girl  turned  more  than  once 
towards  her  father,  and  looked  at  him  in  a  way  that 
puzzled  her  observer. 

They  went  upstairs  for  coffee,  the  girls'  sitting-room 
being  not  only  larger  and  pleasanter  than  the  drawing- 
room,  but  the  piano  also  being  there,  and  when  the  men 
had  come  in  and  Oliver  made  a  bee-line  for  Grisel,  he 
found  that  she  looked  even  more  nervous  and  tired  than 
he  had  thought. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  asked. 

She  shook  her  head.  "Tired.  Besides  it's  very  warm 
in  here." 

"Come  and  sit  by  the  window." 

She  obeyed  him  listlessly,  and  they  sat  down  in  the 
window  seat  that  looked  down  over  the  little  path  leading 
round  the  house  to  the  kitchen  door. 

"I  do  wish,"  the  girl  burst  out  suddenly,  "that  mother 
wouldn't  have  the  Crichells  here." 

He  stared  at  her.  "But  I  thought  you  liked  her.  Why 
do  you  call  her  by  her  Christian  name  if  you  don't?" 


HAPPY  HOUSE  139 


"I  don't  say  I  don't  like  her.  I  saw  you  looking  at 
his  hands  at  dinner.  Aren't  they  beastly?" 

"Horrid.  Has  he  done  anything — anything  you  don't 
like?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "Oh,  no.  But  I — I  wish  they 
hadn't  come." 

As  she  spoke  Wick's  sister  began  to  play,  something 
very  modern,  of  which  he  could  make  neither  head  nor 
tail.  But  she  played  brilliantly,  and  with  what  seemed 
almost  unequalled  facility,  although  he  knew  what  hours 
of  daily  hard  work  went  to  its  perfection. 

Grisel  leant  back  in  her  corner,  and  shut  her  eyes  for 
a  minute.  She  was  really  pale,  and  looked  seriously 
troubled  and  puzzled.  He  turned  and  watched  the  listen- 
ing group  round  the  fire.  Mrs.  Crichell  lay  back  in  a 
low  chair,  her  beautiful  arms  hanging  loose  over  its  sides. 
She  was  really  lovely,  the  young  man  thought — as  lovely, 
that  is,  as  a  woman  of  forty  could  possibly  be,  and  Mr. 
Collier  evidently  agreed  with  him,  for  his  eyes  were  fixed 
on  her.  Crichell  had  taken  up  a  magazine,  folded  back 
the  last  page,  and  was  rapidly  sketching  Maud  Twiss, 
who  sat  looking  away  from  him  and  did  not  see  what 
he  was  doing.  Twiss  had  gone  to  the  telephone  and 
Paul  stood  near  the  piano,  watching  Jenny,  as  her  red 
head  bobbed  funnily  over  the  keys  as  she  played. 

Mrs.  Walbridge  had  left  the  room,  and  Walbridge 
stood  leaning  against  the  door  in  a  pose  often  drawn  by 
du  Maurier  in  the  eighties. 

"I  say,"  Wick  whispered  to  Grisel,  hoping  to  make 
her  laugh,  "your  father  is  most  awfully  good-looking. 
Perfectly  splendid  to-night,  isn't  he?" 

She  gave  a  little  pettish  start.     "Oh,  do  be  quiet,"  she 


140  HAPPY  HOUSE 


snapped.  "If  you  knew  how  sick  and  tired  I  was  of 
having  father's  good  looks  drummed  into  me " 

She  rose  and  marched  over  to  the  chair  her  mother 
had  left,  and  sat  down,  staring  at  her  father,  as  if  she 
disliked  him  intensely. 

Wick  sat  still,  feeling  very  much  injured,  for,  after 
all,  most  girls  would  like  to  hear  their  father  praised — at 
least,  most  pretty  girls.  Of  course,  if  she  had  been  plain, 
he  reflected  gravely,  one  could  understand  her  being  so 
shirty. 

As  Jenny  stopped  playing,  Mrs.  Walbridge  came  back 
into  the  room,  and  approached  Mrs.  Crichell. 

"I'm  so  sorry,"  she  said  kindly,  "but  someone  has 
just  telephoned  to  your  husband  from  his  mother's  house 
and  asked  if  he's  not  going  on  there." 

Mrs.  Crichell  unfurled  her  fan,  which  was  of  black 
feathers  like  some  big  wing.  "Dear  me,  how  tiresome !" 
she  said.  "He's  having  such  a  good  time,  sketching 
Maud,  and  she  doesn't  even  see  him.  Walter,"  she 
called. 

Crichell  turned.    "Yes?" 

She  gave  him  the  message,  and  he  rose  without  any 
comment.  "You'll  let  me  take  this  magazine  with  me, 
Mrs.  Walbridge?"  he  asked. 

Maud  turned  and  stared  at  him.  She  was  a  little 
annoyed,  but  plainly  thought  the  matter  not  worth 
making  a  fuss  about,  and  Mrs.  Crichell  rose  and  took 
up  her  gloves,  and  gave  herself  a  little  shake  more  than 
ever  like  a  sleek  pigeon  that  has  been  sitting  in  the 
sun. 

"Oh,  need  you  go  too?"  Mrs.  Walbridge  asked, 
hospitably. 


HAPPY  HOUSE  141 


She  hesitated.  "No — I  don't  know — Walter,  what 
d'you  think?" 

"I  think,"  he  said  coldly,  "you  might  as  well  stay 
where  you  are.  My  mother  is  not  well,"  he  explained 
to  his  hostess,  "and  she's  quite  alone." 

Ferdie  Walbridge  came  forward.  "Have  a  whisky 
and  soda  before  you  go,  old  man,"  he  said  warmly. 
"I'll  bring  Mrs.  Crichell  home  in  a  taxi.  We  want  her 
to  sing  for  us;  we  couldn't  think  of  letting  her  go  yet." 

Crichell  stood  with  his  back  towards  Oliver  Wick,  and 
he  had  clasped  his  hands  behind  him  in  a  way  he  had. 
Wick  did  not  catch  what  he  said  in  reply  to  this  remark, 
but  noticed  his  hands  move,  and  again  thought  of  the 
writhing  of  the  unpleasant  sea-worms. 

When  her  husband  had  gone,  Mrs.  Crichell  sang, 
accompanying  herself ;  or  rather  she  cooed  little  Spanish 
and  Mexican  ballads,  the  words  of  which  no  one  present 
could  understand,  although  their  meaning  was  made 
fairly  clear  by  the  extreme  eloquence  of  her  face  and 
gestures. 

"That's  very  clever,"  old  Mrs.  Wick  commented  to 
Moreton  Twiss  who  sat  near  her. 

"It's  very  nearly  wonderful,"  the  old  woman  insisted 
gently. 

Twiss  looked  at  her,  his  good-looking,  blue-chinned 
face  rather  critical.  "Oh,  well,  if  you  admire  it,"  he 
said,  "I've  nothing  more  to  say.  Personally  I  don't. 
In  fact,"  he  added,  confidentially,  leaning  forward,  "I 
can't  bear  the  woman,  so  probably  I'm  unfair  to  her 
singing." 

Later  in  the  evening  Jenny  Wick  accompanied  Paul, 
as  he  sang  some  old  ballads  full  of  a  kind  of  academic 
gruesomeness.  He  had,  singularly,  a  delightfully  warm 


142  HAPPY  HOUSE 


baritone  voice,  and  sang  well.  His  rendering  of  "Lord 
Edward  My  Son"  was  extremely  fine,  and  little  Jenny 
Wick  was  delighted,  and  they  arranged  to  meet  during 
the  holidays  so  that  she  might  show  him  a  lot  of  queer 
Basque  songs  that  her  father  had  collected  years  ago. 

Mrs.  Wick  and  Mrs.  Walbridge  had  a  long  talk  before 
the  evening  was  over,  and  though  they  were  intensely 
reserved  women  in  different  ways,  the  observant  Oliver 
saw  with  delight  that  their  attitude  showed  promise  of 
a  real  friendship. 

When  he  said  good-night  to  Mrs.  Walbridge,  he  in- 
vited her  to  kiss  him,  but  this  she  refused  to  do,  patting 
his  cheek  instead. 

It  was  late,  and  the  Twisses  and  Mr.  Collier  had  gone 
long  since.  Mrs.  Wick  and  her  daughter  and  son  left 
at  the  same  time  that  Mrs.  Crichell  and  Mr.  Walbridge 
started  out  on  their  hunt  for  a  taxi,  for  none  had  been 
on  the  rank  when  they  telephoned. 

The  Crichells  lived  in  Hamilton  Terrace,  so  the  walk 
would  not  be  very  long,  and  when  finally  at  the  corner 
a  belated  taxi  did  draw  up  and  showed  signs  of  being 
willing  to  accept  a  fare,  Mrs.  Crichell  refused  to  take  it. 

"I  really  live  only  just  round  the  corner,"  she  said 
kindly  to  the  old  woman,  "and  it's  a  long  way  to  Baker 
Street.  Do  take  it,  Mrs.  Wick." 

So  the  three  Wicks  said  "Good-night,"  and  got  into 
the  taxi,  and  the  other  two  walked  on. 

"Well,  mother,"  the  young  man  asked,  putting  an  arm 
round  each  of  his  companions  as  he  sat  bodkin  between 
them,  "did  you  enjoy  your  evening?" 

"I.  did,  son,"  she  returned.  "What  a  queer  world  it 
is!  To  think  that  all  of  us  will  be  just  a  handful  of 
churchyard  mould,  somewhere,  in  a  few  years'  time." 


HAPPY  HOUSE  143 


Jenny  burst  out  laughing.  "And  may  I  ask  which  of 
the  guests  to-night  struck  you  as  being  particularly 
mouldy?" 

But  Mrs.  Wick  was  serious.  "Don't  try  to  be  funny, 
Jenny,"  she  answered  gravely.  "It  really  struck  me  that 
it  is  strange,  when  you  come  to  think  of  it,  how  impor- 
tant we  all  feel,  and  what  rubbish  we  all  are."  After  a 
minute  she  added,  with  apparent  irrelevance,  "That 
Violet  Walbridge  of  yours  is  a  fine,  brave  little  soul, 
Oily.  I  like  her." 

"I  knew  you  would.  And  what,"  the  young  man 
added,  "did  you  think  of  your  future  daughter-in-law?" 

"She's  very  pretty,  but — you'll  be  annoyed  with  me 
for  saying  so — but  I  should  like  her  better  if  she  were 
more  like  her  mother." 

The  young  man  gave  her  a  little  squeeze.  "Her 
mother's  twice  the  woman  she  is,  of  course.  But  then, 
on  the  other  hand,"  he  added,  "she's  young,  and  has 
plenty  of  time  to  improve." 

The  cab  had  stopped  at  Baker  Street  Station,  and 
as  he  jumped  out  and  turned  to  help  the  old  lady,  he 
added,  "You  wouldn't  like  me  to  marry  Mrs.  Walbridge, 
even  if  she  was  free,  would  you?  She  really  is  a  little 
too  old  for  me!" 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  day  after  Christmas — a  day  spent  by  the  "Happy 
House"  people  at  Campden  Hill,  where,  also,  Maud  and 
her  husband  and  little  Hilary  were  present — Violet 
Walbridge  achieved  the  business  talk  with  her  husband 
that  she  had  had  in  her  mind  ever  since  his  return,  and 
which,  in  some  way  difficult  to  define,  he  seemed  to  be 
trying  to  escape.  It  was  late,  in  the  afternoon  of  Boxing 
Day,  and  the  others  had  gone  to  a  matinee,  and  he  was  to 
dine  with  the  Crichells  and  go  to  a  play  in  the  evening. 
He  was  resting.  He  seemed  to  rest  a  good  deal  lately, 
she  noticed,  and  when  she  had  asked  Grisel  that  morning 
if  it  seemed  to  her  to  mean  that  he  was  not  feeling  quite 
well,  the  girl  had  surprised  her  by  laughing  in  a  new, 
harsh  way,  and  giving  her  a  hasty,  unexpected  kiss. 

"It's  only  a  beauty  cure,  darling,"  she  said.  "Can't 
you  see  that?  He  takes  more  care  of  his  looks  nowadays 
than  any  woman,  except  perhaps  Clara  Crichell." 

"How  do  you  mean,  dear?"  For  Mrs.  Walbridge 
was  singularly  ignorant  about  such  matters,  and  in  all 
her  life  had  used  no  more  subtle  cosmetic  than  ordinary 
cold  cream,  and  water  and  soap. 

"Clara!  My  goodness,  I've  seen  her  having  it  done. 
A  woman  comes  to  her  every  morning  of  her  life — a 
Mrs.  Bryant  here  in  town,  and  a  Frenchwoman  at  Tor- 
quay, and  they  rub  grease  into  her  face  and  knead  it 
and  flap  it  with  wet  cotton  wool,  and  tap  it  with  litch 
bags  full  of  dried  leaves  and  herbs  soaked  in  something. 

144 


HAPPY  HOUSE  145 


Oh,  it's  a  wonderful  business."  The  girl  tossed  her  head 
with  the  contempt  of  her  nineteen  years  for  such  devices. 
"I  don't  like  her  much,  mother,"  she  added,  suddenly, 
with  a  change  of  voice,  turning  to  the  glass  and  doing 
something  to  her  smooth  hair. 

Mrs.  Walbridge  nodded.  ''I  know.  I  don't  think  I 
like  her  much  either.  But  she's  very  pretty.  People 
enjoy  meeting  her,  and  your  father  seems  to  have  taken 
a  fancy  to  her." 

Griselda  had  said  no  more,  but  when  the  lady's  name 
came  up  on  Boxing  Day  between  Ferdie  and  herself, 
Violet  Walbridge  remembered  what  her  daughter  had 
said.  Her  husband  had  had  a  sleep,  she  knew,  but  when 
she  heard  him  moving  about  over  her  head,  as  she  sat 
in  the  drawing-room  sewing,  she  rose,  folded  her  work 
and  went  upstairs.  He  was  sitting  in  front  of  the  dress- 
ing-table pouring  some  yellow  liquid  over  his  hair  with 
one  hand,  while,  with  the  other,  he  rubbed.  The  room 
smelt  of  orange  flowers. 

"Ferdie,"  she  began,  sitting  down  near  him,  "I  want 
to  have  a  little  talk  with  you." 

He  frowned  and  set  down  his  bottle.  "Oh,  dear  me," 
he  protested.  "I  do  wish  you'd  let  me  alone.  This  is 
holiday  time.  No  one  wants  to  talk  business  at  Christ- 
mas." 

But  she  was  firm,  and  put  on  her  glasses,  and  opened 
the  little  notebook  she  had  brought  with  her.  "I'm 
sorry,"  she  said,  "but  we  really  must  settle  matters. 
I'm  sure  I  don't  like  it  any  more  than  you  do,  Ferdie, 
and,  besides,  what  I  have  to  say  is — is  very  unpleasant, 
and  difficult  for  me." 

He  stopped  rubbing  his  wavy  hair,  which  stood  up 
tumbled  all  over  his  head,  giving  him  an  absurdly  boyish, 


146  HAPPY  HOUSE 

helpless  look.  "Don't  tell  me  this  cook's  going  to 
leave!" 

She  shook  her  head.  "No,  it's  worse  than  that.  I've 
been  worried  for  a  long  time  now,  but  I  didn't  like  to 
trouble  you,  because  you  weren't  well — and  then — the 
holidays,  and  Grisel  coming  home,  and  all.  But  I  really 
can't  put  it  off  any  longer." 

So  she  told  him,  as  he  sat  there  at  her  little  old 
dressing-table  wrapped  in  a  fine,  new,  brocaded  dressing- 
gown,  that  he  had  bought,  he  said,  in  Torquay,  but  which, 
nevertheless,  she  had  seen,  in  folding  it  that  morning, 
had  been  made  by  Charvet  in  Paris.  He  looked  (although 
the  simile  didn't  occur  to  her)  like  a  rather  battered 
Greek  statue — rather  injured  and  scratched  old  statue, 
not  quite  free  from  mould,  and  the  effects  of  damp  and 
sun,  but  the  lines  of  him  were  splendid,  and  the  late 
afternoon  light  very  favourable. 

She  told  him — and  after  the  first  he  listened  without 
comment — about  the  gradual  decrease  of  her  sales,  and 
her  slowly  coming  to  realise  that  this  was  the  result  not 
only  of  <the  change  in  the  taste  of  the  younger  genera- 
tion, but  of  her  own  basic  old-fashionedness. 

"I  tried,  you  know,  to  brighten  up  my  style  in  'Lord 
Effingham/  and  I  failed." 

He  looked  at  her  oddly,  as  he  sat  with  his  chin  on  his 
breast.  "I  know,"  he  said,  not  unkindly.  "I  was  sorry 
about  that.  Of  course,  we're  none  of  us  as  young  as  we 
used  to  be,  Violet." 

She  was  considered  by  her  family  to  be  unobservant, 
because  she  rarely  mentioned  the  little  things  she  saw, 
but  she  had  always  seen  a  good  deal,  and  now  she  did 
not  miss  the  satisfied  little  glance  he  gave  to  his  face  in 
the  mirror.  He  felt,  she  knew,  that  he  himself  was  the 


HAPPY  HOUSE  147 


exception  to  that  horrid  rule  about  growing  older,  and 
for  a  moment  she  felt  the  ageing  woman's  exasperation 
at  the  greater  stability  of  men's  looks.  Her  exaspera- 
tion, however,  was  very  mild,  and  quite  kindly. 

Then  she  showed  him  Messrs.  Lubbock  &  Payne's 
letter,  and  explained  about  the  five  hundred  pounds. 

"How  much  have  you  got  left  of  that?"  he  asked. 

"Exactly  two  hundred.  There  was  the  quarter's  rent, 
and  the  man  called  twice  about  the  gas,  so  I  had  to  pay 
him,  and  the  piano  bill  came,  and  then  there  were  your 
pyjamas,  and  Melton  came  himself  about  your  last  suits, 
and  was  really  rather  unpleasant,  so  I  paid  him  twenty 
pounds  on  account.  Then  there  was  a  little  matter  in 
which  I  had  to  help  one  of  the  boys." 

She  waited,  expecting  him  to  make  some  disagreeable 
remark  about  her  eternal  ability  and  willingness  to  go 
to  the  boys'  rescue,  but  to  her  surprise  he  said  nothing, 
and  sat  with  folded  arms,  listening  in  silence. 

"Grisel  had  to  have  one  or  two  things,"  she  went  on, 
after  a  moment,  "and  then  I  wanted  to  help  Maud  get 
her  things  for  the  new  baby,  and  Guy  wanted  ten  pounds, 
poor  boy.  I've  written  it  all  down  here.  I'll  leave  it 
with  you,  Ferdie.  And  then  Christmas,  you  know,  was 
rather  expensive,  and  I  don't,"  she  added  honestly, 
"seem  very  clever  at  getting  things  cheap."  Still  he 
didn't  answer,  and  something  in  his  silence  gave -her  a 
little  sensation  of  fear.  "Are  you  listening?"  she  asked 
timidly. 

He  rose  and  walked  about  the  room,  the  tassels  of  his 
dressing-gown  trailing  after  him,  his  head  down.  She 
had  expected  him  to  scold,  even  to  rail  at  her,  and  she 
had  gathered  up  her  courage  to  meet  such  a  scene,  but 
this  queer  silence,  and  the  unmistakable  look  of  pity  in 


148  HAPPY  HOUSE 


his  face  were  harder  to  bear  than  any  amount  of  re- 
proaches or  anger  would  have  been. 

She  suddenly  felt  very  old,  and  very  tired,  and  very 
helpless.  She  had  been  independent  and  self-reliant  for 
over  a  quarter  of  a  century,  ever  since,  in  fact,  she  had 
first  found  out  what  her  handsome  husband  really  was. 
But  now  at  this  crisis  she  wanted — she  longed  for  some 
kind,  strong  person  to  take  the  reins  out  of  her  weary 
hands  and  drive  the  coach  for  her  for  a  while. 

"You  mean  then,"  he  said  at  last,  "that  if  this  new 
book  fails,  you — you  won't  be  selling  any  others?" 

She  hesitated.  "If  this  one  should  be  good  they 
might  make  another  contract,"  she  said.  "I  don't  know. 
I'm  afraid  it's  very  bad,  although  it  seems  to  come  to 
me  easily  and  quickly. 

"But  what  are  you  going  to  do?"  he  asked,  turning 
round  and  looking  at  her,  still  with  that  grave, 'discon- 
certing kindness  that  seemed  so  far  off,  as  if  it  had 
nothing  to  do  with  him.  She  made  a  little  gesture  with 
her  hands. 

"I  don't  know,  Ferdie.  What  do  you  think  we  had 
better  do?" 

"I  think,"  he  began  slowly — then  his  face  cleared. 
"There's  the  telephone  bell,"  he  cried.  "It's — it's  a  man 
about  a  speculation.  I'll  just  go  down  and  see."  He 
hurried  downstairs.  When  he  came  back  he  was  smil- 
ing, and  had  an  almost  silly  aspect  of  happiness. 

She  caught  her  breath.  What  if,  after  all,  now,  when 
she  had  failed,  Ferdie  was  going  to  be  successful  and 
make  up  for  all  her  years  of  struggle!  "Is  it  all  right?" 
she  asked. 

"All  right?    Oh,  yes."    He  sat  down  again  and  began 


HAPPY  HOUSE  149 


to  comb  his  hair,  parting  it  with  infinite  care,  skilfully 
avoiding,  she  noticed,  the  thin  place  at  the  crown. 

"I'll  think  all  this  over,  my  dear,"  he  said  hastily,  as 
the  clock  struck  half-past  six.  "I  must  dress  now. 
We're  dining  early.  By  the  way,  I  hope  you  aren't 
encouraging  any  nonsense  with  that  journalist  fellow — ' 
with  Grisel,  I  mean." 

"Oliver  Wick?  I  shouldn't  know  how  to  encourage 
or  discourage,"  she  answered,  "even  if  I  wanted  to  do 
either.  Times  have  changed  since  our  day,  Ferdie." 

"My  God,  yes;  they  have  indeed!"  he  agreed.  "But 
there  must  be  no  nonsense  about  her  marrying  that  boy. 
I  thought  she  seemed  a  little  lackadaisical  and  dull  since 
we  got  back,  and  I  heard  her  talking  to  him  on  the  tele- 
phone this  morning.  It  would  be  a  great  pity  to  throw 
her  away  on  a  little  nobody  like  him."  This  was  one  of 
his  ducal  moments,  and  she  never  protested  against  his 
assumption  that  he  belonged  to  the  great  ones  of  the 
earth.  So  she  said  nothing,  and  when  he  had  come 
back  from  turning  on  the  water  in  the  bathroom,  she 
got  up,  knowing  that  he  wished  to  be  alone. 

"Do  you  think — do  you  think  you  can  think  of  some- 
thing?" she  asked,  as  she  reached  the  door.  "I  was 
wondering  if  you  would  mind  if  we  let  the  house  and 
moved  to  some  cheaper  one." 

"No,  no,  no,"  he  burst  out.  "We'll  do  nothing  of 
the  kind.  That's  perfectly  impossible." 

A  little  touched  by  his  unexpected  vehemence,  she 
smiled  back  at  him. 

"I  didn't  know  you  cared  so  much  for  poor  old  'Happy 
House/  "  she  said. 

"Run  along,  my  dear  girl.  I  must  dress.  Don't  bother 
your  head.  Things  will  turn  out  all  right.  If  I'm  not 


150  HAPPY  HOJLJSE 


very  much  mistaken,  Sir  John  Barclay  is  going  to  ask 
Grisel  to  marry  him.  If  he  does,  she'll  be  the  luckiest 
girl  alive." 

Mrs.  Walbridge  stared  at  him,  her  face  a  sudden, 
distressing  red.  "Oh,  Ferdie!  But  he's  an  old  man!" 

Walbridge,  who  had  reached  the  bathroom  door,  drew 
himself  up,  playing  shoulders  and  chest,  and  his  fine, 
big,  muscular  throat.  "Nonsense !  He's  only  fifty-four. 
I'm  fifty-four!" 

She  nodded  and  said  no  more.  He  was  fifty-five,  but 
that  didn't  matter  one  way  or  the  other,  she  felt. 

As  she  went  downstairs  the  telephone  again  rang  and 
she  answered  it.  It  was  Grisel,  apparently  in  a  great 
hurry. 

"Mother,  darling,  I've  just  met  Oliver,  and  he  says 
he's  coming  to  the  house  this  evening — and  I  don't  want 
to  see  him." 

"Why,  dear?"  her  mother  asked,  looking  gently  and 
kindly  at  the  telephone. 

"Well — I  can't  go  into  it  on  the  telephone — I'm  tele- 
phoning you  from  the  Underground.  Sir  John  Barclay 
is  here.  He  was  at  the  play  too,  you  know,  and  I'm 
dining  with  him.  Yes,  alone.  Yes  I  am,  mother.  No, 
I  don't  have  to  dress,  we're  going  to  a  grill-room  some- 
where. Oh,  please  don't  fuss!"  The  girl's  voice  was 
irritable  and  sharp.  "Do  you  understand?  Tell  Oliver 
I  can't  get  back." 

"I  shall  tell  him,"  Mrs.  Walbridge  said  firmly,  "that 
you're  dining  with  Sir  John  Barclay." 

Grisel  made  a  little  inarticulate  sound,  and  then  her 
mother  heard  her  sigh  impatiently.  "All  right.  Just 
as  you  like.  It  doesn't  matter,  but  for  goodness'  sake 


HAPPY  HOUSE  151 


don't  let  him  stay  late.  I  must  go  now,  darling.  You'll 
make  it  all  right,  won't  you?  Good-bye." 

She  rang  off,  and  her  mother  stood  looking  at  the 
telephone  as  if  it  were  a  human  being,  as  most  people 
have  found  themselves  doing  at  one  time  or  other. 

She  dined  alone,  not  even  seeing  Walbridge  before 
he  slipped  out  while  she  was  in  her  attic-room  writing. 
Very  soon  after  dinner  Oliver  arrived,  and  although  he 
said  little  and  insisted  on  being  very  merry,  telling  her 
some  ridiculous  stories,  she  had  an  unhappy  evening. 
She  had  tried  to  avoid  telling  him  where  Grisel  was, 
but  it  had  been  impossible,  for  there  was  something 
uncanny  about  him,  he  was  such  a  good  guesser,  and  as 
soon  as  she  had  explained  that  Griselda  was  out,  he 
had  known  all  about  it. 

"Dining  with  Sir  John  Barclay,  I  suppose,  in  some 
grill-room,"  he  said  shortly. 

"Yes.  He  seems,"  she  added,  "to  be  a  charming  old 
gentleman." 

"Oh,  the  devil!  Old  gentleman  indeed!"  he  went  on, 
without  apologising.  "I  saw  him  to-day  as  they  came 
out  of  the  theatre.  I  knew  where  they  were  going,  you 
see,  and  managed  to  get  round  there  just  as  the  play 
was  out.  He's  a  fine-looking  man,  and  a  gentleman, 
and  I'd  like  to  wring  his  neck." 

"Surely,"  she  said,  not  insincerely,  for  her  husband's 
impressions  were,  she  knew,  not  always  very  accurate, 
"why  shouldn't  an  old  man — for  he  is  old  compared  to 
Grisel — like  to  take  a  pretty  girl  out  to  dinner?" 

Wick  cocked  his  head  on  one  side,  and  deliberately 
shut  one  eye  in  a  way  that  would  have  been  vulgar  if  he 
had  been  vulgar  himself. 

"No,  no,  Mrs.  Walbridge,  that  won't  do,  that  won't 


152  HAPPY  HOUSE 


do  at  all,"  he  said,  in  a  way  that  made  her  laugh.  "You 
know  as  well  as  I  do  that  Grisel's  a  minx.  She's  trying 
to  make  up  her  mind  to  marry  Sir  John  Barclay  because 

he's  rich  and  she  doesn't  want  to  see  me  because " 

he  broke  off  suddenly  and  his  voice  changed  to  one  of 
great  softness,  "she's  almost  half  in  love  with  me 
already." 

Mrs.  Walbridge  clasped  her  hands  and  looked  at  him 
nervously.  "I  don't  think  that's  fair,"  she  said,  "to  say 
that  about  a  young  girl." 

"Oh,  my  hat!  Anything's  fair  to  a  man  who's  fight- 
ing for  his  life — and  that's  me.  Oh,  yes.  I  know  it 
sounds  absurd  and  anyone  but  you  would  laugh  at  me. 
But  I  am  righting  for  my  life,  and  what's  more,"  he  said 
with  finality,  rising  as  if  to  emphasise  his  speech,  "I'm 
going  to  win.  I'm  going  to  get  her.  She's  a  spoilt, 
selfish,  mercenary  little  minx,  but  I  love  her  and  I'm 
going  to  change  her  into  an  angel." 

Mrs.  Walbridge  did  not  like  to  have  her  baby  called 
mercenary,  and  spoilt,  and  selfish.  Perhaps  she  liked  it 
less  for  knowing  that  it  was  true,  but  the  young  man 
swept  away  her  protests  by  further  invective,  and  finally 
she  was  bound  to  admit  that  the  girl's  long  stay  with 
the  rich  and  luxury-loving  Fords  had  not  done  her  any 
good.  Wick  smiled,  and  looked  at  the  clock. 

"Done  her  good!  It's  nearly  ruined  her.  Most  men 
would  give  her  up  in  disgust  since  she's  been  back  this 
time — but  not  me.  I'll  go  now,  or  she'll  be  coming  in." 

They  shook  hands  and  as  he  got  to  the  door  he  looked 
round  with  a  comical  groan.  "If  only,"  he  said,  "if 
only  she  wasn't  so  easy  to  look  at." 


CHAPTER  XV 

GRISELDA,  during  several  days,  was  hardly  at  home  at 
all.  The  Fords  were  still  in  town;  she  had  lunched  one 
day  in  Queen  Anne  Street,  the  next  at  Campden  Hill, 
and  nearly  every  night  the  Fords  fetched  her  to  take 
her  to  a  play  or  a  party. 

Mrs.  Walbridge  could,  of  course,  have  forced  the  girl 
into  a  confidential  talk,  but  she  was  not  of  the  kind  who 
do  force  people  to  talk  against  their  will,  and  it  was 
very  plain  to  her  that  her  daughter  was  avoiding  her, 
although  the  girl  was  oddly  enough  at  the  same  time 
full  of  little  sudden  bursts  of  affection  and  unusually 
generous  in  the  matter  of  little  passing  hugs  and  kisses 
for  her  mother. 

Mrs.  Walbridge  was  less  troubled  than  she  otherwise 
would  have  been  by  this  preoccupation  of  her  daughter, 
owing  to  the  fact  that  she  herself  was  very  much  taken 
up  with  the  new  book  she  was  writing.  She  had  made 
several  attempts,  for  she  felt  weighed  down  with  grati- 
tude to  her  publisher  in  sending  her  the  cheque  before  the 
book  was  written,  and  she  had  rather  lost  sight  of  the 
fact  that  this,  kind  though  it  was,  was  in  reality  a 
douceur  to  sweeten  the  hard  fact  of  her  dismissal  from 
their  list  of  authors.  She  had  begun  and  destroyed  sev- 
eral novels  before  she  got  really  started,  and  now  this 
new  one  was  filling  her  mind  day  and  night,  although  she 
felt  grave  doubts  as  to  whether  it  was  going  to  be  good. 
It  was  dreadful  to  her  to  reflect  that  the  book  might 

153 


154  HAPPY  HOUSE 


turn  out  as  much  of  a  failure  as  "Lord  Effingham"  had 
been,  and  thus  cause  pecuniary  loss  to  Mr.  Lubbock  and 
Mr.  Payne.  So  she  worked  day  and  night,  her  pen  flying 
over  the  paper  in  a  way  that  roused  Paul's  grave  doubts 
as  to  the  results  of  her  labour. 

"You  can't  possibly  write  a  book  that  way,  mother," 
the  young  man  said  one  day  when  he  had  come  up  to 
her  study  to  have  her  mend  a  glove  that  he  had  split. 
"You  ought  to  see  the  way  Collier  writes.  Works  for 
hours  over  one  bit,  and  weighs  every  word." 

Mrs.  Walbridge  said  nothing,  for  it  would  not  have 
been  any  good,  she  thought.  She  did  not  express  her 
conviction  that  the  result  of  Mr.  Bruce  Collier's  word- 
weighing  was  hardly  worth  while,  but,  as  she  stitched 
at  the  glove,  the  young  man,  who  was  in  a  good  mood, 
went  on,  not  unkindly,  to  encourage  her,  as  he  expressed 
it,  to  take  more  pains  with  her  work.  He  did  not  know 
that  her  contract  with  Lubbock  &  Payne  had  come  to 
an  end,  with  no  prospect  of  renewal.  She  had  not  again 
referred  the  matter  to  her  husband,  and  he  had  not 
mentioned  the  subject  to  her.  She  was  living  in  the  curi- 
ous isolation  of  a  writer  engaged  in  congenial  work.  She 
was  deliberately  allowing  her  mind  to  rest  from  pecuniary 
cares  for  a  few  days,  in  order  that  her  novel  might 
progress  satisfactorily. 

"You  ought  to  work  regularly,"  Paul  explained.  It 
was  Sunday  morning,  and  he  looked  very  smart,  turned 
out  as  he  was  for  a  luncheon  party  after  church  parade. 
"Collier  does.  And  I  met  Miss  Potter,  who  writes  about 
mediaeval  Constantinople — her  books  sell  enormously — 
and  she  told  me  that  she  writes  as  regularly  as  she  eats 
her  meals — two  hours  in  the  morning  and  two  hours  in 
the  afternoon.  That's  what  keeps  her  brain  so  fresh." 


HAPPY  HOUSE  155 


Mrs.  Walbridge,  who  had  read  one  of  the  books  in 
question  and  did  not  consider  it  remarkable  for  mental 
freshness,  stitched  silently,  and  bit  off  the  thread  with 
her  sharp  little  teeth. 

"My  dear  boy,"  she  said,  "when  you  were  children 
I  wrote  every  afternoon  for  four  solid  hours.  I  couldn't 
write  in  the  morning  because  I  had  to  help  make  the 
beds,  and  do  the  marketing,  and  wash  and  dress  you  all, 
and  get  some  of  you  off  to  school  and  others  out  for  a 
walk  with  either  poor  Caroline,  or  Fanny  Perkins.  Then 
I  had  to  cook  your  father's  lunch  myself,  because  he 
always  had  a  delicate  stomach;  and  when  was  I  to  do 
any  work  in  the  morning  to  keep  my  brain  fresh?" 

Paul  was  surprised.  His  mother  so  rarely  defended 
herself,  and  he  felt  under  the  mild  humorousness  of  her 
manner,  a  distinct  appreciation  of  the  fact  that  he  had 
made  rather  a  fool  of  himself  by  his  admonition.  Feel- 
ing more  like  a  son,  and  less  like  a  superior  being  than 
he  had  felt  for  some  years,  he  drew  on  the  gloves  with 
a  little  laugh. 

"I  daresay  you  are  right,"  he  admitted.  "I  didn't 
realise  all  that.  But  whatever  you  did  in  those  days 
you're  certainly  not  writing  like  that  on  this  book.  Twice 
now  when  I've  come  in  very  late  I've  seen  the  light  under 
this  door,  and  you're  looking  very  tired." 

She  was  very  tired,  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears  at 
the  unexpected  sign  of  interest. 

"Will  you  be  back  to  lunch?  Oh,  no.  You  told  me 
you  wouldn't.  I'll  walk  over  and  get  Caroline.  A  little 
fresh  air  will  do  me  good." 

He  frowned.  "Where's  Grisel?  I've  not  seen  her 
for  days.  Doesn't  she  ever  stay  in  nowadays?" 


156 HAPPY  HOUSE 

"She's  lunching  at  the  Henry  Twisses  with  Moreton 
and  Maud." 

"And  where's  father?"  He  glanced  sharply  at  her 
as  he  spoke.  She  took  up  her  pen  and  pulled  a  hair  off 
its  nib. 

"I  think  he  said  he  was  lunching  with  the  Crichells." 

"No,  he's  not.  Crichell  went  to  Birmingham  yester- 
day about  his  one-man  show." 

"Did  he?"  she  said  indifferently.  "I  wasn't  really 
listening.  Tell  Jessie  to  call  me  at  twelve,  will  you? 
I  lose  track  of  time,"  she  added  apologetically,  "when 
I'm  shut  away  up  here." 

The  young  man  went  out,  and  she  settled  down  again 
to  her  work.  The  holidays  were  nearly  over,  and  her 
book  was  approaching  its  end. 

"I  do  hope,"  she  said,  as  Jessie  called  her  and  she 
went  down  to  dress  for  going  to  fetch  Caroline  Breeze, 
"I  do  hope  it'll  be  good." 

The  house  was  very  quiet.  It  struck  her  as  she  went 
downstairs,  with  her  jacket  and  hat  on,  that  it  was 
quieter  than  a  house  ought  to  be  with  two  young  people 
living  in  it.  She  longed  suddenly  for  Guy — her  naughty 
boy.  He  was  troublesome,  but  he  was  pleasantly  noisy, 
and  though  he  had  no  voice  like  Paul,  she  liked  hearing 
him  sing,  and  even  whistle,  as  he  went  up  and  down  the 
stairs,  and  his  untidy  hats  and  gloves  in  the  hall  looked 
friendly  and  hearty  somehow. 

She  met  Miss  Breeze  as  she  turned  off  Albany  Street, 
and  they  walked  back  together. 

"I've  seen  nothing  of  you  lately,"  Miss  Breeze  com- 
plained pleasantly.  "I  was  thinking  in  church  this 
morning — during  the  sermon  that  is — that  I  should  be 
glad  when  the  holidays  are  over." 


HAPPY  HOUSE  157 


"It's  more  my  book  than  the  holidays.  Oh,  Caroline, 
I'm  so  worried  about  it." 

Miss  Breeze,  who  was  rather  pathetically  dressed  for 
church  in  all  her  best  clothes,  looked  anxiously  down 
at  her  friend. 

"Dear  me,  Violet,  I  do  hope  you've  not  been  trying 
to  write  one  of  those  horrid  modern  books.  Mrs.  Barker 
lent  me  several  the  other  day,  and  I  do  think  it's  quite 
wrong  to  write  such  books.  I  read  two  of  Rosa  Carey's 
after  them,  just  to  take  the  taste  out  of  my  mouth." 

Mrs.  Walbridge  shook  her  head.  "Oh,  no,  of  course 
I  wouldn't  do  such  a  thing1  as  that.  But  I'm  afraid  it 
isn't  anything  like  so  good  as  my  best  books,  although 
I  must  say  I'm  enjoying  writing  it."  She  frowned  in  a 
puzzled  way.  "If  only  it  could  be  good,  and  Mr.  Lub- 
bock  would  make  a  new  contract  with  me !" 

The  two  friends  walked  quietly  on  in  the  mild  winter 
morning,  discussing  the  probability  of  the  new  book 
pleasing  Mr.  Lubbock  and  Mr.  Payne.  It  never  occurred 
to  Miss  Breeze  to  ask  to  be  allowed  to  look  at  the  manu- 
script, nor  to  Mrs.  Walbridge  to  suggest  reading  a  part 
of  it  aloud  to  her.  Mrs.  Walbridge  had  never  read  one 
word  of  her  own  work  aloud  to  a  soul  since  the  very  early 
days  in  Tooting  Bee,  when  she  sat  on  a  sofa  with  her, 
as  yet,  unchipped  Greek  god  beside  her,  and  read  him 
the  most  sentimental  bits  of  "Queenie's  Promise." 

The  two  women  had  a  long  quiet  day  together,  and 
then,  as  no  one  came  in  at  supper  time,  they  had  a  boiled 
egg  and  a  cup  of  tea  apiece,  and  went  out  for  a  little 
walk  in  the  dark,  a  mild  pleasure  to  which  Mrs.  Wal- 
bridge was  rather  attached,  although  she  had  been  very 
seldom  able  to  gratify  it,  owing  to  the  little  trammels 
of  family  life.  It  gave  her  an  indefinable  pleasure  to 


158  HAPPY  HOUSE 


see  the  lights  behind  drawn  curtains,  and  to  catch  an 
occasional  glimpse  of  a  cosy  fire  through  forgotten  win- 
dows; she  liked  to  see  people — happy,  chattering  people 
— opening  their  own  house  door  with  keys -and  going 
into  the  shelter  and  comfort  of  their  own  homes.  There 
was  a  clear,  poetic  little  thrill  for  her  in  a  sight  that 
exasperate  many  people — that  of  humble  lovers  bare- 
facedly embracing  at  street  corners.  Even  overfed  old 
ladies  leading  frightful  pugs  and  moth-eaten  Scotch 
terriers  seemed  to  ring  a  little  bell  in  her  heart,  but  these, 
of  course,  were  faces  of  the  morning.  However,  there 
were  several  openings  of  doors  that  happened  oppor- 
tunely that  evening  for  her  benefit,  and  one  charming 
picture  of  three  white-shod,  white-frocked  children  rac- 
ing down  a  high  flight  of  steps  screaming  with  rapture 
at  meeting  their  father  who,  when  his  hat  was  knocked 
off  by  their  onslaught,  revealed  a  bald  and  shining  head, 
and  a  fat  plebeian  face,  but  whom  the  children  obviously 
adored  The  little  Walbridges  had  never  greeted  their 
father  in  tnis  way,  and  she  rather  envied  the  protesting 
mother,  who  stood  at  the  top  of  the  steps. 

"It's  very  pleasant  walking  at  night,"  the  kind  Caro- 
line, who  really  hated  it,  exclaimed,  as  this  particular 
door  closed  on  the  happy  family.  And  Mrs.  Walbridge 
gave  her  arm  a  little  squeeze  and  did  not  speak. 

Caroline's  tall  and  gaunt  and  forbidding  person  was 
yet  shy  and  full  of  old-fashioned  tremors.  It  caused  her 
real  fear  to  be  out  alone  after  nightfall,  so  Mrs.  Wai- 
bridge  accompanied  her  to  her  door,  and  went  back  to 
"Happy  House"  alone.  She  had  forgotten  her  key,  and 
so  knocked  on  the  panels  of  the  door  with  her  knuckles. 
Someone  was  in  the  drawing-room  and  was,  she  thought, 
sure  to  hear  her.  No  one  did  hear  at  first,  and,  after 


HAPPY  HOUSE  159 


a  moment,  she  knocked  again.  Presently  the  door 
opened  and  Griselda  let  her  in.  The  girl  had  been  crying, 
and  her  usually  smooth  hair  was  untidy  and  darnp- 
looking.  But  when  they  were  in  the  drawing-room,  and 
before  her  mother  could  ask  her  what  was  the  matter, 
she  burst  into  a  little  laugh. 

"Well,  mother  dear,  you  must  give  me  your  blessing, 
for  I'm  engaged  to  be  married." 

Mrs.  Walbridge  sat  down  and  took  off  her  glasses. 
She  knew  that  the  girl  was  on  the  verge  of  an  uncontrol- 
lable breakdown,  and  it  was  her  nature  to  discourage 
uncontrollable  breakdowns. 

"Are  you,  my  dear?"  she  asked  quietly.  "Of  course 
you've  my  blessing.  I  suppose  it's  Sir  John  Barclay. 
Haven't  I  had  two  daughters  married  before,  and  don't 
I  know  the  signs?"  Her  little  joke  did  its  duty,  and 
quieted  Grisel. 

"But  you've  never  even  seen  him — Sir  John — John 
I  mean." 

"I've  heard  about  him  from  your  father,  and  from 
Mrs.  Ford.  They  say  he's  charming." 

The  girl  rose  and  began  to  smooth  her  hair  before  the 
glass. 

"He  is,"  she  said.  "He's  a  darling.  Oh,  I  forgot 
to  show  you  this,"  and  she  held  out  her  little  left  hand 
on  which  hung  a  huge  ruby  in  a  ring  far  too  big  for  her. 
"It's  got  to  be  made  smaller,"  she  said.  "Not  the  ruby, 
but  the  ring,"  and  she  laughed,  and  the  laugh  sounded 
more  natural  this  time. 

Mrs.  Walbridge  rose  and  kissed  her.  "Well,  my 
dear,"  she  said,  "it'll  be  very  funny  to  hear  you  called 
'my  Lady/  but  I  don't  mind  confessing  to  you  that  I 


160  HAPPY  HOUSE 

think  Sir  John,  however  nice  he  may  be,  is  a  very  lucky 
man.  Come  along,  let's  have  a  cup  of  cocoa." 

Both  maids  were  out,  so  they  went  down  into  the 
quiet,  clean  kitchen,  lit  the  gas-ring,  and  had  a  little 
feast  such  as  they  had  had  many  times  before. 

Violet  Walbridge  had  described  hundreds  of  senti- 
mental scenes  between  newly  engaged  girls  and  their 
mothers,  but  she  did  not  herself  behave  in  the  least  as 
one  of  her  characters  would  have  done,  for,  instead  of 
provoking  a  scene,  and  confidences  and  tears,  and  a  dis- 
play of  back  hair,  such  as  she  had  been  rather  fond 
of  in  her  novels,  she  carefully  avoided  all  reference  to 
the  signs  of  tears  on  her  daughter's  face,  and  they  talked 
only  of  the  most  matter  of  fact  aspects  of  the  engage- 
ment. Sir  John  was  going  to  Argentina  as  soon  as  the 
authorities  would  let  him,  it  seemed,  and  wanted  the 
wedding  to  be  in  September,  immediately  after  he 
returned. 

"I  was  awfully  afraid,"  the  girl  added  naively,  "that 
he  was  going  to  marry  me  now,  and  take  me  with  him 
to  South  America." 

Her  mother  sipped  her  cocoa  reflectively,  and  did  not 
raise  the  question  of  the  exact  meaning  of  the  word 
afraid. 

"Oh,  no,"  she  said,  "much  nicer  in  every  way  to  wait 
till  he  comes  back.  I  think  your  father  will  be  pleased ; 
he  seems  to  like  him  very  much." 

"Ye-e-e-s."  Grisel  looked  up  quickly  from  her  ring, 
which  she  was  twisting  round  her  finger  in  the  lamp 
light.  "Oh,  yes.  Father  will  be  pleased." 

"They  are  great  friends,  aren't  they?"  her  mother 
asked,  as  the  clock  struck  half-past  ten. 

Grisel  hesitated.     "Well,  I  don't  know  that  they  are 


HAPPY  HOUSE  161 


great  friends,"  she  said  in  a  thoughtful  voice.  ''Sir 
John  is  very  different  from  father,  you  know.  He's 
very  dignified  and  rather  stern,  and  he  couldn't  bear  the 
Crichells.  But  father  likes  him,  anyhow " 

"Well,  come  along,  dear,  we  must  get  to  bed.  I  don't 
know  where  anyone  in  the  household  is,  but  they've  got 
keys,  of  course." 

"Poor  mother,  you've  been  alone  all  day."  There 
was  sudden  compunction  in  Grisel's  voice  as  they  went 
up  the  dark  stairs  to  the  ground  floor. 

"Oh,  no.  I  haven't.  I've  not  been  alone  at  all," 
the  mother  answered  gaily.  "Caroline  came  to  lunch 
and  stayed  all  the  afternoon.  I  just  walked  home  with 
her " 

She  woujd  have  liked  to  go  into  her  child's  bedroom 
with  her  on  that  important  evening  of  her  life,  and  help 
her  undress,  and  even  brush  her  hair,  as  one  of  the 
mothers  in  her  own  books  would  have  done.  But  though 
she  was  old-fashioned  herself,  she  knew  that  her  daugh- 
ter was  not.  So  they  kissed  on  the  landing,  and  separated 
for  the  night  without  any  further  display  of  sentiment. 
But  it  was  a  long,  long  time  before  Violet  Walbridge 
slept  that  Sunday.  At  half -past  twelve  she  crept  out 
and  saw  the  light  still  burning  in  Grisel's  room,  and  at 
two  she  did  the  same  thing.  Finally,  knowing  that  she 
could  not  sleep,  she  put  on  her  dressing-gown  and  padded 
softly  upstairs  in  her  old  felt  slippers  to  the  room  in  the 
attic,  and,  having  lit  her  lamp,  did  two  hours  hard  work, 
while  the  winter  sky  was  gradually  drained  of  its  dark- 
ness, and  the  clear  grey  that  is  neither  darkness  nor  light 
took  the  place  of  the  night,  to  give  way  slowly,  as  if 
reluctantly,  to  the  morning. 

She  wrote  rapidly,  her  face  white  and  sharp,  bent 


162 HAPPY  HOUSE 

over  the  paper.  She  had  forgotten  now  her  sad  con- 
viction of  the  book's  worthlessness.  Words  came  out 
in  a  torrent,  as  if  independently  of  herself,  and  her  hand 
struggled  to  keep  up  with  her  ideas.  She  knew  that 
this  was  the  wrong  way  to  write — that  the  great  novelists 
whom  she  so  admired  worked  carefully,  measuring  their 
words,  weighing  each  one  as  if  it  was  a  pearl — her  own 
facility  having  always  been  like  that  of  an  older  child 
telling  tales  by  the  fire  to  the  little  ones.  She  had  con- 
nected the  mediocrity  of  her  work  with  this  fatal  ease 
of  narration.  She  had  been  scorned  kindly  (for  one  of 
her  troubles  had  never  been  that  horrid  one  of  envy 
and  bitterness  in  the  minds  of  others^  for  this  effortless 
facility,  and  she  knew  it.  But  now  she  could  no  more 
have  held  back  for  what  she  called  polishing  her  phrases 
than  a  little  brook  in  full  freshet  forcing  itself  into  a 
pool.  On  and  on  she  wrote,  forgetting  fatigue,  for- 
getting her  troubles,  forgetting  everything  but  the  fate 
of  the  people  she  was  describing,  and  at  last,  just  as 
the  clock  struck  five,  her  pen  wrote  "finis"  to  her  twenty- 
third  novel,  and  laid  itself  down.  She  sat  for  a  moment 
staring  at  the  paper,  suddenly  very  tired,  and  conscious 
that  her  feet  were  numb  with  cold.  She  went  to  the 
window  and  looked  out  into  the  livid  unfriendly  light, 
and  then,  stuffing  the  manuscript  into  the  drawer  of  her 
table,  she  crept  downstairs. 

As  she  went  back  to  her  room,  it  occurred  to  her  that 
she  had  not  heard  Ferdie  come  in.  He  had  slept  on  a 
camp  bed  in  his  dressing-room  since  his  return,  because 
of  his  cough,  which,  he  said,  troubled  him  a  good  deal 
at  night. 

She  opened  his  door  softly.  He  lay  there  asleep,  with 
the  growing  daylight  falling  on  his  face.  She  stood  for 


HAPPY  HOUSE  163 


a  moment,  looking  at  him,  wondering  that  she  had  not 
heard  him  come  in,  reproaching  herself  mildly  for  her 
indifference  to  him,  and  deliberately  recalling  him  as  he 
had  been  in  the  old  days,  when  she  first  knew  him. 

How  handsome  he  had  been!  She  remembered  the 
day — it  was  in  winter  too — when  she  had  crept  down- 
stairs in  the  old  house  in  Russell  Street,  and  joined  him 
in  a  musty,  smelling,  old  "growler,"  that  took  them  to 
the  train  for  High  Wycombe,  where  they  had  been 
married  before  lunch.  Poor  Ferdie !  He  had  failed  her 
utterly;  she  had  suffered,  and  suffered  silently;  but  as 
she  looked  at  him  there  as  he  slept,  her  eyes  filled  with 
tears.  He  looked  very  lonely,  very  pathetic  somehow, 
and  helpless.  The  thin  place  shone  out  from  his  tumbled 
hair,  and  for  a  moment  she  was  gripped  by  the  helpless 
pathos  of  the  briefness  of  life,  of  the  inexorable  march 
gravewards  of  every  human  being.  Poor  Ferdie,  she 
thought  again,  as  she  went  sadly  back  to  bed.' 

She  had  no  doubt  failed  him,  too,  and  now  they  were 
both  old. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

As  Mrs.  Walbridge  went  down  to  breakfast  the  next 
morning,  she  was  conscious  of  a  hope  that  Paul  would 
not  be  too  pleased  about  his  sister's  engagement.  She 
had  not  stopped  to  analyse  her  feeling,  but  it  was  not 
an  unkind  one.  For  Paul  to  be  greatly  pleased,  would, 
she  knew,  mean  that  the  worst  side  of  his  nature  was 
touched  by  the  event.  So  it  was  with  some  relief  that 
she  found  the  young  man  and  his  sister  in  the  dining- 
room  quarrelling. 

"It's  disgraceful,"  he  declared,  as  she  opened  the 
door.  "He's  nearly  old  enough  to  be  your  grandfather." 

Mrs.  Walbridge's  heart  gave  a  thump  of  pleasure  at 
this  speech,  not  that  she  dreamed  of  his  words  having 
any  influence  on  Grisel,  but  because  honest  indignation 
over  an  abstract  right  or  wrong  was  very  rarely  roused 
in  her  son. 

"Paul,  Paul,"  she  said  gently,  as  she  rang  the  bell 
and  sat  down  behind  the  old-fashioned,  acorn-topped, 
silver-plated  tea  equipage.  "Good-morning,  children." 

Grisel  kissed  her  and  sat  down  at  her  place  near  the 
door,  the  chair  with  its  back  to  the  fire  had  always  been 
Paul's. 

"My  romantic  brother  feels  that  I  am  wasting  my 
young  life  in  marrying  Sir  John  Barclay,"  she  declared, 
laughing  lightly. 

Paul  grunted,  and  unfolded  the  morning  paper. 
"There  are  plenty  of  men  who  aren't  beggars.  I  do 

164 


HAPPY  HOUSE  165 


call  it  disgusting  of  Grisel  to  marry  an  old  man  simply 
because  he's  rich." 

He  looked  younger  and  softer'in  his  unexpected  anger, 
and  his  mother's  eyes  rested  on  him  with  an  odd  expres- 
sion of  surprised  relief.  ''He's  right  in  theory,  you 
know,  darling,"  she  agreed,  turning  to  the  girl.  "Every- 
body'll  say  the  same  thing." 

Grisel  gave  her  ring  a  twist,  and  said  nothing  till  the 
door  had  closed  on  the  maid.  Then  she  helped  herself 
to  butter.  "Oh,  I  know.  Crabbed  age  and  youth — 
but  Sir  John — John,  I  mean — isn't  crabbed — that's  just 
the  point.  He's  a  perfectly  charming  man,  and  everyone 
says  so,  mother,  and  he's  ever  so  young  in  some  ways. 
He's  worth,"  she  added,  with  an  odd  little  flush  of 
humility,  "worth  a  dozen  of  me." 

"Nobody  denies  that,"  put  in  Paul,  taking  his  tea 
from  his  mother.  "You're  a  useless  little  baggage 
enough,  everyone  knows  that.  And  I  shouldn't  say  a 
word  if  there  was  any  chance  of  you  even  really  liking 

him,  to  say  nothing  of — of "  He  broke  off,  and 

added  gravely,  as  if  he  were  making  use  of  words  that 
he  feared,  "of  loving  him." 

His  mother  stared  at  him.  "Why,  what  do  you 
mean,  Paul?  You're  being  very  rude,  and  it's  wrong  of 
you.  Of  course  Grisel  likes  Sir  John,  and — and  many 
women  have  loved  husbands  much  older  than  them- 
selves," she  added  shamefacedly,  aware  of  her  own 
duplicity,  for  she  was  a  devoted  believer  in  the  union  of 
youth  to  youth,  and  the  growing  old  together  of  happy 
married  couples.  Whence  she  drew  this  romantic  belief 
it  would  be  hard  to  say,  for  the  experience  had  certainly 
not  come  her  way,  and  as  it  happened  several  of  her 
married  friends  had  come  to  grief.  But  it  was  her  belief, 


166  HAPPY  HOUSE 

and  probably  one  of  the  secrets  of  the  popularity  of  her 
books,  for  in  her  heyday  people  liked  pleasant  stories 
about  pleasant  people,  who  suffered,  of  course,  through 
the  machinations  of  the  wicked,  but  who  made  their  way 
steadily,  through  floods  of  tears,  to  the  safe  shores  of 
the  old-fashioned  happy  ending. 

"I  suppose  the  old  fellow  wears  a  padded  coat  and 
stays,"  Paul  went  on,  less  angry  now,  and  settling  down 
to  a  solid  enjoyment  of  tormenting  his  little  sister. 

"Ass!    He's  only  fifty-two,  and  isn't  a  bit  that  kind." 

"What  kind?" 

"Oh,  well,  trying  to  be  young.  A  stale  beau.  He 
seems  a  mere  boy,  for  instance,  in  some  ways,  beside 
father." 

Paul  scowled  and  said  nothing.  His  mother  had 
noticed  several  times  of  late  that  there  was  some  kind 
of  dissension  between  him  and  his  father,  but  they  had 
never  been  very  friendly,  no  house  being  big  enough 
for  two  absolutely  selfish  men,  and  their  interests  had 
always  clashed.  But  during  the  last  few  weeks  this 
antagonism  had  seemed  to  quicken  into  something  more 
definite,  and  Mrs.  Walbridge  wondered  vaguely,  as  she 
ate  her  breakfast,  what  it  meant. 

Grisel,  who  was  pale,  was  yet  too  young  to  bear  in  her 
face  any  ugly  traces  of  her  sleepless  night,  and  she  went 
through  the  meal  with  a  kind  of  resolute  gaiety.  She 
was  full  Of  her  own  affairs,  and  declared  her  intention 
of  ringing  up  the  girls  as  soon  as  she  had  finished  eating, 
and  telling  them  the  news. 

"Maud  and  Moreton  will  be  delighted,"  she  declared. 
"They  liked  him  so  much  that  night,  and  he's  giving 
Billy  some  kind  of  work,  something  in  the  City,  that 
Billy  says  will  be  awfully  useful  to  him,  because  Sir 


HAPPY  HOUSE  167 


John  is  so  well  known.  Billy  and  Hermy  were  frightfully 
pleased.  Wasn't  it  kind  of  him? — of  Sir  John,  I  mean." 

"Oh,  now  she's  experiencing  the  joys  of  patronage," 
commented  Paul,  spreading  strawberry  jam  on  his  toast 
"She'll  be  getting  us  all  little  jobs,  mother.  Oh,  hell !" 

He  was  not  a  young  man  who  used  bad  language,  and 
his  mother  was  surprised  as  well  as  shocked  at  it.  But 
before  she  could  remonstrate  the  door  opened,  and 
Ferdie  came  in,  pale  and  tired-looking,  with  heavy  eyes 
and  nervous  twitching  of  his  eye-brows,  that  boded  evil 
things  for  his  companions. 

Grisel  looked  at  him  sharply,  and  Paul,  turning,  fixed 
his  eyes  so  unswervingly  on  his  father's  face  that  his 
father  snapped  at  him. 

"What  the  deuce  are  you  glaring  at?" 

"You,"  said  the  young  man,  coolly.  "It's  no  good, 
Guv'nor,  you  can't  keep  it  up  at  your  time  of  life.  You'll 
be  as  plain  as  the  rest  of  us  if  you  go  on  like  this." 

His  words  were  not  so  offensive  to  his  mother  as  they 
would  have  been  to  most  women,  as  addressed  by  son 
to  father,  for  Ferdie  Walbridge's  character  was  such  that 
though  his  children  undoubtedly  had  a  certain  pride  in 
him  because  of  his  good  looks,  and  a  kind  of  affection 
that  was  not  empty  of  pity,  he  had  never,  even  when 
they  were  very  little  children,  inspired  the  least  fear  or 
even  respect  in  them. 

She  looked,  however,  anxiously  from  one  to  the  other 
of  the  three  faces  round  the  table,  and  was  relieved 
when  Grisel,  with  a  little  determined  air  of  excitement, 
held  out  her  left  hand,  and  waved  it  under  her  father's 
swollen,  surly  eyes. 

"Look  at  that  oh  beau  sabreur,"  she  cried,  "and 
behold  the  future  Lady  Barclay,  and  rejoice." 


168  HAPPY  HOUSE 


"Hallo,  hallo!"  His  boorishness  disappeared  like  a 
flash,  and  a  surprising  amount  of  boyish  beauty  and 
delight  rested  on  his  face  for  a  moment,  like  the  light 
from  a  passing  torch.  He  kissed  her  and  murmured  a 
few  words  of  delight  and  sympathy,  and  taking  up  his 
cup  walked  about  the  room,  sipping  tea  and  talking  to 
himself  as  much  as  to  the  others. 

"Good  girl,  good  girl — you'll  be  very  happy — Sir  John 
Barclay's  a  fine  man.  •  I  knew  it.  I  saw  it  coming! 
I'm  not  surprised.  Violet,  what  did  I  tell  you?  Well, 
are  you  proud  of  your  baby,  old  woman?" 

He  gave  his  wife  a  rough  thump  on  the  back  as  he 
passed  her  chair.  "He's  a  baronet  too.  Delightful 
fellow,  delightful."  He  stopped  short,  drawing  himself 
up  and  preening  in  the  way  that  was  half  infuriating  and 
half  pathetic.  "Fancy  his  being  my  son-in-law  with  that 
white  hair!" 

Mrs.  Walbridge  really  could  not  bear  him  when  he  did 
that,  so  she  rose,  ashamed  of  her  feeling  of  disgust,  and 
went  out  of  the  room. 

Presently  she  heard  the  door  slam,  and  knew  that 
Paul  had  left.  So,  after  her  daily  interview  with  the 
cook,  she  went  up  to  her  study,  and  sat  down  to  think. 
Sir  John  Barclay  would  be  coming  to-day  to  see  her,  and 
the  interview  would  be  a  difficult  one  for  her,  for  she 
was  ashamed  of  her  daughter's  decision;  she  was  a  bad 
liar,  and  she  had  always  shunned  with  a  kind  of  fastidi- 
ous pain,  the  sight  of  an  old  man  in  love  with  a  young 
girl.  Then,  too,  there  was  Oliver,  and  her  intimate 
knowledge  of  him.  Poor  Oliver !  He  would  be  coming, 
and  he  would  have  to  be  told,  and  his  queer  face  would 
have  that  dreadful  look  of  pain  in  it,  and  then  he  would 
laugh  and  be  ridiculous,  and  that  would  be  still  worse. 


HAPPY  HOUSE  169 


She  wished  Ferdie  would  say  something  to  her  about 
their  business  affairs,  but  he  hadn't  said  a  word.  He 
seemed  able  to  put  troublesome  thoughts  clean  away  out 
of  his  mind,  but  she  couldn't.  What  was  to  become  of 
them  all?  If  only  this  book  would  please  Mr.  Lubbock 
and  Mr.  Payne! 

She  heard  the  telephone  bell  ring  faintly,  and  opening 
the  door  after  a  moment  heard  the  sound  of  Grisel's 
voice  a  little  high  and  unnatural,  it  seemed  to  her. 

"He's  the  greatest  dear,"  the  girl  was  saying.  "I 
knew  you  and  Moreton  would  be  glad." 

Mrs.  Walbridge  closed  the  door,  and  sat  down.  She 
was  so  used  to  moulding  events  in  her  novels  that  it 
seemed  to  her  intolerable  and  almost  ridiculous  that  in 
real  life,  in  this  matter  of  her  little  daugher,  for  in- 
stance, events  so  obstinately  refused  to  be  moulded.  She 
ought  to  be  able  to  make  Oliver  Wick  suddenly  rich 
enough  to  snatch  her  away  from  this  monstrous  old  man, 
who  coveted  her  youth  and  beauty.  Unconsciously  Mrs. 
Walbridge  had  fallen  into  the  language  of  her  novels — 
and  love  should  triumph  among  roses  in  the  last  chapter. 
But  now  she  could  no  nothing.  Grisel  had  made  her 
choice,  and  the  old  monster  was  to  triumph.  Her  only 
comfort  in  this  dreary  reverie  was  that  Paul,  selfish,  hard 
Paul,  should  unconsciously  have  taken  sides  with  her  in 
her  hatred  of  the  marriage.  She  had  never  understood 
Paul.  He  was  to  her  not  so  much  like  a  closed  book 
as  like  a  book  written  in  a  foreign  language  of  which 
she  knew  only  a  word  or  two  here  and  there.  She  had 
expected  him  to  be  pleased,  because  of  Sir  John  Bar- 
clay's riches,  and  lo  and  behold  he  was  as  displeased  as 
she  was,  and  full  of  a  regret  that,  though  bitterly  ex- 


170  HAPPY  HOUSE 


pressed,  was,  she  knew,  based  on  a  genuine  sentimental 
disapproval  of  mercenary  marriages. 

After  a  while  she  opened  the  drawer  of  the  table  and 
took  out  the  manuscript,  and,  more  in  the  hope  of  for- 
getting for  a  while  about  Grisel  than  for  anything  else 
she  began  to  read  it.  How  flat  it  was !  How  dull !  The 
people  were  all  unnatural;  their  language  silly  and  vul- 
gar. Her  face  settled  into  lines  of  utter  misery  as  she 
read.  Mr.  Lubbock  and  Mr.  Payne  would  never  publish 
such  stuff.  She  heard  a  clock  strike  once  or  twice  as 
she  sat  reading.  The  sound  conveyed  nothing  to  her. 
On  and  on  she  read,  and  when  finally  the  page  with 
"finis"  caught  her  eye  she  realised  that  it  must  be  late, 
and  started  up  guiltily.  Her  misery  was  too  deep  for 
tears,  but  as  she  closed  the  door  on  the  failure  she  spoke 
aloud  to  herself.  "Written  out,"  she  said  slowly. 
"That's  what  it  is.  I'm  old,  and  I'm  written  out." 


Early  that  afternoon  a  woman  who  lived  on  the  same 
landing  as  Miss  Breeze,  came  to  "Happy  House"  with 
a  note. 

Caroline  was  in  bed  with  a  bad  go  of  asthma,  and 
would  Violet  come  to  see  her?  Mrs.  Walbridge  went  to 
the  girls'  room,  where  Griselda  was  writing  notes,  and 
told  her. 

"Poor  Caroline!  I  suppose  I  ought  to  go,  dear,  but 
I  don't  want  to  miss  Sir  John  when  he  comes." 

Grisel,  who  had  been  very  gay  and  full  of  laughter  all 
day,  looked  up  sombrely. 

"Oh,  he  won't  be  here  before  tea-time,  I  should  think," 
she  said.  "He's  very  busy,  you  know.  Besides,  father's 
in.  Don't  stay  long.  It'll  be  all  right." 


HAPPY  HOUSE  171 


"Writing  letters,  are  you?'  her  mother  asked  fool- 
ishly. 

She  nodded.  "Yes.  Ever  so  many  people  I've  got 
to  tell,  of  course.  Looks  so  silly  written  down.  'I  know 
you  will  be  glad  to  hear,'  Tm  sure  you  will  be  surprised 
when  I  tell  you'  " — she  jabbed  viciously  at  a  clean  sheet 
of  paper  with  her  pen,  sending  a  spray  of  ink  across  it. 

"Have  you  written  to  Oliver  Wick?" 

"No,  I  haven't.  He's  such  a  goose.  I  thought  per- 
haps you  would  write  to  Mrs.  Wick." 

"You  must  write  and  tell  him  at  once,  daughter," 
Violet  Walbridge  said  sternly,  and  Grisel  did  not  answer. 

Caroline  Breeze  thought  her  friend  looked  very  tired, 
and  though  she  didn't  say  so,  very  plain,  when  she  came 
in  to  her  bedroom,  a  small  bunch  of  asters  in  her  hand. 
Miss  Breeze  had  been  ill,  but  felt  better  now,  and  was 
sitting  up  in  bed  smoking  a  medicated  cigarette,  the 
smell  of  which  was  very  dreadful  to  Mrs.  Walbridge. 
To  her  surprise,  the  sentimental  Caroline  was  rapturous 
with  delight  over  the  news  of  the  engagement.  Darling 
Grisel,  she  was  sure,  would  be  very  happy.  "Better  to 
be  an  old  man's  darling  than  a  young  man's  slave,"  she 
cried. 

"No  young  man  wanted  her  to  be  his  slave,"  pro- 
tested Mrs.  Walbridge,  with  mild  horror. 

"That  Oliver  Wick  did."  Caroline  had  never  liked 
the  young  Mr.  Wick,  Violet  knew,  because,  plain  and 
unalluring  old  woman  that  she  was,  she  resented  the 
young  man's  lack  of  beauty.  He  failed  in  every  way  to 
come  up  to  her  standard  of  a  lover,  and  Grisel,  of  all  the 
"Happy  House"  children,  having  been  her  special  care 
and  pet,  she  felt  that  she  had  a  kind  of  right  to  object 
to  such  an  unattractive  and  penniless  young  man  ventur- 


172  HAPPY  HOUSE 

ing  to  approach  the  girl,  who  was  nearer  to  her  than  any 
young  thing  in  the  world. 

"She'll  pay  for  dressing,  too,  Grisel  will,"  Caroline 
declared,  shaking  her  head  vigorously,  and  inhaling  the 
thick  yellow  smoke  from  her  cigarette.  "Where  are 
they  going  to  live?  I  suppose  he'll  be  getting  her  a 
house  in  one  of  the  swell  squares.  Berkeley  Square  would 
be  my  choice,"  she  added.  "By  the  way,  Violet,  it's  a 
splendid  name,  Barclay.  I  wonder  if  he's  any  relation 
to — isn't  there  an  earldom  of  that  name?" 

Violet  shook  her  head.  "I'm  sure  I  don't  know," 
she  said  indifferently.  "I  do  wish  he  was  younger. 
Why,  he's  older  than  I  am,  Caroline!" 

"Fudge  and  nonsense!  Fifteen  years  younger,  to  all 
intents  and  purposes.  Besides,  Ferdie  told  me  one  day 
that  he  has  magnificent  health.  That  always  makes  a 
difference,  to  say  nothing  of  his  money,"  she  added 
vaguely.  "It'd  be  lovely  to  have  someone  in  the  family 
with  plenty  of  money." 

"It  won't  make  much  difference  to  us,"  commented 
Mrs.,  Walbridge. 

"No,  of  course  not,  but  still — oh,  Violet,  I  do  hope 
they'll  like  the  book !  By  the  way,  I  was  reading  a  paper 
yesterday  about  a  girl  who  got  a  prize  in  some  competi- 
tion. She  only  got  the  fourth  prize,  and  it  was  a  hundred 
pounds!  Why  don't  you  try  for  one  of  them?" 

Mrs.  Walbridge  was  humbled-minded,  but  she  had  her 
pride.  "I  saw  that  thing.  It  was  some  rubbish  that 
they  print  in  pale  blue  paper  covers — scullery  maid's 
romance !" 

Caroline  bridled.  "I'm  sure  I  didn't  mean  to  offend 
you.  As  far  as  that's  concerned,  there  are  a  lot  of  com- 
petitions, and  some  very  good  writers  write  for  them. 


HAPPY  HOUSE  173 


Harbottle's  offering  a  thousand  pounds  for  a  good  novel, 
to  start  off  his  new  five  shilling  edition." 

But  Mrs.  Walbridge  was  not  to  be  beguiled  into  paths 
of  speculative  dalliance.  "I'm  writing  my  book,  as  you 
know,  for  Lubbock  &  Payne,"  she  said,  "and  even  if  I 
had  a  chance  of  winning  a  prize,  which  I  haven't,  it 
wouldn't  be  honest  to  offer  my  book  to  anybody  else." 

The  talk  then  turned  again  to  Grisel  and  her  prospects. 

Somehow,  although  her  dear  old  friend  had  done  her 
best  to  cheer  her  up,  it  was  with  a  very  flagging  heart 
that  Mrs.  Walbridge  reached  "Happy  House"  at  tea- 
time. 

She  was  afraid  to  face  in  her  own  mind  the  latent 
fear  she  had  about  Oliver  Wick.  But  she  was  tired,  and 
could  not  put  him  resolutely  out  of  her  mind,  and  she 
looked  a  very  weary,  faded  little  creature,  on  the  very 
verge  of  old  age,  as  she  toiled  up  the  steps  and  opened 
the  door. 

Voices  upstairs  in  the  girls'  room.  She  went  up  a  few 
steps  and  listened.  Yes,  there  was  a  man's  voice  she 
had  never  heard  before.  Sir  John  Barclay  had  come. 

For  a  moment  she  thought  of  going  to  her  own  room 
and  putting  on  her  afternoon  dress.  She  knew  how 
shabby  she  looked;  she  had  on  her  oldest  hat,  for  the 
afternoon  had  looked  threatening,  and  she  had  not 
touched  her  hair  since  the  early  morning.  Then,  with  a 
little  sigh,  she  went  straight  on.  It  wouldn't  matter  to 
this  prospective  bridegroom  that  his  lovely  little  sweet- 
heart's mother  was  a  dowdy  old  woman;  and  shexwas 
tired,  and  wanted  a  cup  of  tea  more  than  anything  in  the 
world.  So,  without  pausing,  she  opened  the  door  and 
went  in. 

Maud  and  Hermy  were  both  there,  and  they  were  all 


174  HAPPY  HOUSE 


sitting  round  the  tea-table  at  which  Grisel,  very  flushed 
and  excited  and  pretty,  presided.  The  stranger  sat  with 
his  back  to  the  door.  She  had  only  time  to  see  that  it 
was  a  straight,  broad,  strong  back,  surmounted  by  a 
well-shaped  head,  covered  with  thick  white  hair,  when 
the  girls  saw  her  and  rose  in  a  little  covey,  fluttering 
towards  her  with  cries  of  excitement  and  affection. 

"Oh,  mother,  isn't  he  delightful?"  Maud  whispered 
as  she  kissed  her,  and  Hermione's  face  expressed  real 
unselfish  sympathy  and  happiness.  And  then  Grisel, 
taking  her  by  the  hand,  smiled  Over  her  shoulder. 

"Come,  John,"  she  said,  "this  is  mother." 

The  big  man  stood  still  in  the  middle  of  his  advance, 
a  puzzled,  queer  look  in  his  face,  which  even  looked,  she 
noticed,  a  little  pale. 

"Isn't  it,"  he  began,  and  broke  off.  Then  he  came  up 
to  her  and  held  out  his  hands.  "Surely,"  he  said,  slowly, 
"you  used  to  be  Miss  Violet  Elaine  ?" 

"Yes."  She  was  staring  at  him  with  utter  amaze- 
ment, so  strange  was  his  manner,  and  the  three  young 
women  were  also  staring. 

"What  do  you  mean,  John?"  Griselda  burst  out, 
after  a  pause  that  seemed  interminable.  "What's  the 
matter?" 

Then  the  man  laughed,  gave  himself  a  little  shake  and 
taking  Mrs.  Walbridge's  hand,  bent  and  kissed  it  with  a 
grace  that  proved  that  he  had  lived  long  in  some  Latin 
country. 

"Nothing's  the  matter,"  he  said,  in  a  pleasant  deep 
voice,"  except  that  I  knew  your  mother  over  thirty 
years  ago,  and  I  hadn't  realised  that  you  were  her  child." 

They  all  sat  down,  the  three  girls  chattering  in  amazed 
amusement  and  amused  amazement.  The  two  elders 


HAPPY  HOUSE  175 


said  little,  and  then,  when  Mrs.  Walbridge  had  been 
given  her  cup  of  tea  and  drunk  a  little  of  it,  she  looked 
up  with  her  big  clear  eyes  at  the  man  who  was  going  to 
marry  her  daughter. 

"It  seems  very  rude,"  she  said  gently,  "but  you  know 
I  don't  remember  you!  Are  you  quite  sure  you  are  not 
mistaken  ?" 

"Why,  how  can  he  be,  Mum,  when  he  knew  your 
name?"  laughed  Hermione.  "Do  tell  us  about  it,  Sir 
John." 

Barclay  crossed  his  knees  and  folded  his  arms.  He 
was  a  man  with  a  fine,  smooth  shaven  face  of  the  kind 
that  might  belong  equally  well  to  either  a  very  fine  actor 
or  a  judge.  His  light  blue  eyes  had  a  fair  and  level 
gaze,  and  his  finest  feature,  his  mouth,  was  strong  and 
benevolent,  with  well-set  corners,  and  firmness  without 
harshness. 

"It's  quite  natural,"  he  said  to  Mrs.  Walbridge,  "that 
you  should  not  remember  me.  We  met  just  before  I 
went  to  the  Argentine,  as  it  was  then  called,  thirty-one 
years  ago,  at  the  house  of  some  people  named  Fen  wick, 
near  High  Wycombe.  You  were  staying  in  the  house, 
and  my  father  was  the  dean  of  the  parish,  and  the  Fen- 
wick  boys  and  girls  were  my  best  friends.  We  had  a 
picnic  to  Naphill,  and  danced,  and  we  drove  on  a  brake 
to  Chalf ont  St.  Giles  to  see  Milton's  house.  Now  do  you 
remember  ?" 

A  deep;  beautifying  flush  swept  across  the  face  under 
the  deplorable  old  hat.  "I  remember  the  picnic  per- 
fectly. A  bottle  of  cold  tea  got  broken  and  ruined  some- 
body's frock,  do  you  remember?  And  I  remember 
Milton's  house,  but,"  she  shook  her  head  a  little  embar- 


176  HAPPY  HOUSE 


rassed  but  truthful,  "I'm  awfully  sorry,  but  I  can't 
remember  you." 

There  was  a  little  pause,  during  which  his  fine  face  did 
not  change. 

"You  were  very  preoccupied,  I  think,"  he  added. 
"You  weren't  particularly  happy  at  the  time,  and  I  was 
only  a  long-legged  loon  of  a  boy  of  twenty-one.  But  I 
remember,"  he  went  on,  "I've  always  remembered." 

"Well,  then,  darling,  you  won't  mind  having  Sir  John 
as  a  son-in-law,  will  you?" 

It  was  Hermione  who  spoke.  She  was  always  the 
readiest  of  speech,  being  the  least  fine  of  feeling  of  the 
three  girls,  and  the  slight  strain  that  lay  on  them  all 
merged  away  at  her  commonplace  words. 

Sir  John  took  his  leave  a  few  minutes  later,  and  as  he 
shook  hands  with  Mrs.  Walbridge,  he  looked  down  at 
her  very  kindly,  very  gently.  The  three  others  had  gone 
into  the  bedroom  on  purpose  to  leave  the  two  elders 
alone  a  moment. 

"She's  very  young,  you  know,"  Violet  Walbridge  said, 
without  preliminary. 

"I  know.  I  shall  never  forget  that."  And  she  felt  as 
she  went  to  her  own  room  that  he  had  made  her  a  solemn 
and  very  comforting  promise. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

To  Mrs.  Walbridge's  surprise  and  relief,  Oliver  Wick 
made  no  sign  for  several  days,  although  she  herself  had 
written  to  his  mother  on  some  pretext  and  mentioned 
the  engagement  in  a  casual  reference  that  she  regarded 
as  very  dishonest,  though  necessary,  and  probably  use- 
ful. The  morning  of  New  Year's  Eve  an  answer  to 
her  note  had  come  from  old  Mrs.  Wick,  and  she  read  it 
several  times. 

"Dear  Mrs.  Walbridge, — Thanks  very  much  for 
your  note  telling  me  of  the  engagement.  I  am  sure  you 
will  be  glad  to  know  that  that  queer  son  of  mine  is  not 
coming  to  'Happy  House'  at  present.  He's  very  un- 
happy, less  I  think  because  he  has  given  up  hope  of 
marrying  Grisel,  than  because  he  is  disappointed  in  her 
for  becoming  engaged  to  a  man  he  is  convinced  she 
does  not  love.  I  can  tell  you  this  quite  frankly  be- 
cause he  is  so  fond  of  you  that  I  am  sure  you  know 
him  well  and  will  understand. 

"He  is  as  much  like  a  fussy  old  mother  as  a  lover 
in  his  attitude  towards  your  daughter.  He  does  so  re- 
sent her  kno^ving  and  liking  people  he  despises,  such 
as  that  poor  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ford,  for  instance,  and  the 
Crichells.  I  met  Mrs.  Crichell  the  other  day  at  the 
Leicester  Galleries.  She's  certainly  very  pretty,  but 
as  I  saw  from  your  face  that  you  dislike  her,  I  don't 
mind  telling  you  that  I  do  too.  There's  something 

177 


178  HAPPY  HOUSE 


very  unpleasant  about  her.    However,  it's  very  rude 
of  me  to  abuse  your  acquaintances,  so  I'll  stop. 

"Jenny  will  be  seeing  your  son  New  Year's  Day, 
as  she's  going  to  accompany  him  in  some  songs  at 
Mrs.  Gaskell-Walker's,  so  we  hope  to  hear  good  news 
of  you  all  then. 

"Yours  sincerely, 

"FRANCES  WICK." 

Oliver  carried  out  his  intention,  and  nothing  was  seen 
of  him  at  "Happy  House"  for  some  time.  Things  went 
very  smoothly.  Grisel  seemed  happy,  and  Sir  John's 
devotion  to  her  seemed  to  her  mother  exactly  what  it 
should  have  been — neither  slavish  nor  domineering, 
without  that  touch  of  patronage,  so  often  seen  in  old 
men,  however  much  they  may  be  in  love,  towards  their 
young  sweethearts.  He  had  never  again  referred  to 
their  early  acquaintance,  and  Mrs.  Walbridge  was  con- 
scious of  a  sincere  regret  that,  do  what  she  would,  she 
could  not  recall  him  as  a  youth  to  her  memory. 

He  was  very  kind  to  every  one  of  the  family,  and 
Walbridge  very  often  lunched  with  him  at  his  Club  in 
the  City,  and  spoke  vaguely  of  good  things  he  had  been 
put  on  by  his  prospective  son-in-law.  Walbridge  never 
lost  sight  of  the  joke  of  his  (Ferdinand  Walbridge)  be- 
ing father-in-law  to  a  man  of  Barclay's  age.  But  he 
seemed  very  disposed  to  make  every  possible  use  of  Bar- 
clay's experience  and  kindness. 

One  day,  towards  the  end  of  January,  Mrs.  Walbridge 
sat  by  the  fire  in  the  drawing-room,  working  hard  at 
her  new  book.  It  was  bitterly  cold,  so  cold  that  she 
had  been  obliged  to  come  down  from  her  study  in  the 
attic.  Guy,  who  had  been  detained  in  Paris  on  some 


HAPPY  HOUSE  179 


regimental  business,  greatly  to  his  own  disgust,  had 
written  that  he  was  coming  back  in  a  few  days,  and 
Mrs.  Walbridge's  feelings  as  she  sat  there  in  the  quiet 
house,  more  nearly  approached  happiness  than  she  had 
felt  for  a  long  time.  Griselda,  who  had  been  lunching 
with  Maud  at  her  mother-in-law's  house,  had  not  come 
in,  and  apparently  a  long,  quiet  afternoon  was  before 
Mrs.  Walbridge.  Her  new  book,  after  all,  was  going 
on  fairly  well,  and  Mr.  Payne  had  written  her  a  very 
kind  letter  in  reply  to  her  explanation  about  her  failure 
with  the  other  one,  and  he  had  given  her  an  extension 
of  time  that  promised  to  make  the  completion  of  "Rose- 
mary" an  easy  matter.  She  wrote  on  and  on,  and  then 
suddenly,  in  the  middle  of  her  work,  and  rather  to  her 
disappointment,  Sir  John  Barclay  was  announced  by 
the  proud  Jessie. 

"I'm  afraid  I'm  disturbing  you,"  he  said  kindly,  sit- 
ting down  by  the  fire  and  warming  his  hands.  "Are 
you  working  on  your  book?  I've  just  had  news  calling 
me  to  Scotland.  Where's  Grisel?" 

She  explained,  saying  that  Grisel  had  gone  to  Maud. 
"You're  sure  to  find  her  there." 

He  nodded.  "All  right.  I'll  go  and  take  her  out  to 
dinner,  and  she  can  take  me  down  to  the  station,  and 
then  Smith  can  drive  her  home."  .  He  looked  at  his 
watch.  "It's  only  half-past  four.  You're  sure  I'm  not 
disturbing  you?  Would  you  rather  have  me  go?" 

"Oh,  no.  Ring  the  bell  and  I'll  give  you  some  tea. 
Yes,  I'm  working  at  my  book,"  she  went  on.  "I've  got 
to  get  it  done  as  soon  as  I  can;  the  publishers  want  it." 

He  looked  very  kind  and  interested  as  he  sat  there,  his 
handsome  head  turned  towards  her,  his  strong  hands 
held  up  to  the  fire — so  kind,  that  suddenly  she  found 


i8o  HAPPY  HOUSE 


herself  telling  him  about  her  other  book,  "Lord  Effing- 
ham" — the  failure. 

"I'd  worked  so  hard  at  it,"  she  said,  "and  it  seemed 
to  go  well — although  I  never  liked  it  much;  it  wasn't 
a  very  nice  book.  And  then  when  I  read  it  through  I 
saw  how  hopelessly  bad  it  was." 

He  pleased  her  by  accepting  her  verdict  without  flat- 
tery and  contradiction. 

"Perhaps  you  were  too  tired.  You  seem  to  me  to 
have  a  great  many  different  duties " 

She  shook  her  head.  "No,  I  wasn't  tired,  and  I've 
always  been  used  to  writing  in  a  hugger-mugger  kind 
of  way,"  she  added,  with  a  simple  vanity  that  touched 
him.  "I  could  always  concentrate." 

"Who  are  your  publishers?"  he  asked  after  a  moment. 
"Oh,  yes,  good  men — good  men.  I'm  not  much  of  a 
novel  reader  myself,  but  of  course  I  know  their  name." 

And  then  to  her  own  surprise  she  told  him  the  tragedy 
of  the  expired  contract.  He  listened  attentively,  his 
whole  mind  fixed  on  her  story.  When  she  had  finished 
he  put  one  or  two  shrewd  questions  to  her,  and  reflected 
over  her  answers,  after  which  he  said:  "I  may  as  well 
tell  you  that  I  knew  this  before,  Mrs.  Walbridge." 

She  started. 

"Oh,  did  you?  Do  you  know  them — Mr.  Lubbock 
and  Mr.  Payne,  I  mean?" 

"No.    Your  husband  told  me  several  weeks  ago." 

Something  in  his  face  betrayed  to  her  his  distaste 
either  at  Walbridge's  confidence  or  the  manner  in  which 
it  had  been  made,  and  she  flushed  faintly.  For  Ferdie 
had,  she  knew,  often  disgusted  people. 

He  looked  at  her  thoughtfully,  and  then  to  her  surprise 


HAPPY  HOUSE  181 


his  face  changed,  and  with  a  very  young  smile  he  broke 
out:  "After  all,  you've  changed  very  little!" 

"Oh,  Sir  John!  I'm  an  old  woman,"  she  protested 
sincerely,  "and  I  was  only  a  child  then." 

He  nodded. 

"I  know.  The  outside  of  you  has  changed,  of  course, 
but  you're  much  the  same  in  other  ways.  For  instance, 
you  are  still  worrying  to  death  about  something — that 
business  of  the  book,  I  suppose — just  as  you  were  then. 
I  remember  one  day  in  the  vicarage  garden  we  had  been 
playing  tennis,  I  tried  to  persuade  you,  silly  young  cub 
that  I  was,  to  confide  in  me." 

"Oh,"  she  cried  suddenly,  clasping  her  hands,  "didn't 
you  wear  a  red  blazer — red  and  white  stripes?  And 
hadn't  you  some  ridiculous  nickname?" 

"Good.  You've  remembered.  I  am  glad."  He  threw 
his  head  back  and  laughed,  and  she  liked  the  shine  of  his 
white  teeth  in  the  firelight.  "Of  course  I  had.  They 
called  me  'Scrags.' ' 

She  was  silent  for  a  little  while,  and  he  knew  that  she 
was  seeing  again  the  shabby  old  rectory  garden  with  its 
roses  and  hollyhocks,  £nd  its  lumpy  tennis  lawn,  and 
himself,  the  youth  in  the  scarlet  blazer. 

"It  was  my  old  school  blazer,"  he  tojd  her  in  a  gentle 
voice,  not  to  interrupt  too  much  the  current  of  her 
thoughts.  "I  remember  it  was  too  short  in  the  arms, 
and  I  was  rather  ashamed  of  it.  I  thought,"  he  added 
whimsically,  "that  you  might  laugh  at  it." 

"I?"  The  gentle  astonishment  in  her  eyes  amused 
him. 

"Yes,  you.  Some  day  I'll  tell  you  about  it,  but  not 
now.  I've  a  piece  of  good  news  for  you,"  he  added. 
"Your  husband  and  I  had  a  long  talk  this  morning,  and 


182  HAPPY  HOUSE 


as  his  present  business  arrangements  seem  rather  un- 
satisfactory, and  as  I  happen  to  need  a — kind  of  part- 
ner in  one  of  my  little  business  concerns,  I've  persuaded 
him  to  take  the  position.  It's  nothing  very  brilliant," 
he  went  on  hurriedly,  frightened  by  the  change  in  her 
face.  "Only  five  hundred  a  year,  but  he  seems  to  think 
he  would  prefer  it  to  this  present  work  he  is  doing " 

The  look  she  turned  on  him  was  astonishingly  like  a 
look  of  anger,  and  for  some  reason  it  delighted  him  in 
its  contrast  to  her  husband's  easy  gratitude.  He  hated 
scenes,  and  was  not  very  well  versed  in  the  ways  of 
women,  but  for  reasons  of  his  own  his  heart  sang  as 
she  rose. 

"I  understand  very  little  about  business,"  she  said 
coldly.  "But  it's  very  kind  of  you  to  give  a  position 
to  my  husband.  I  think,  if  you  will  excuse  me,  I  will 
leave  you  now.  I  am  sure  Grisel  will  be  back  here  soon, 
and  I've  a  seamstress  upstairs." 

Instead  of  going  to  fetch  her,  he  waited  there  over 
an  hour  for  Grisel,  walking  up  and  down  the  room,  and 
without  visible  impatience. 

When  his  little  sweetheart  arrived  she  ran  upstairs 
for  a  warmer  coat  for  they  were  going  to  motor.  She 
was  gone  some  time  and  when  they  were  in  the  car  and 
he  had  tucked  her  luxuriously  up  in  a  big  rug  of  flexible 
dark  fur  she  explained  to  him  why  she  had  kept  him 
waiting. 

"It  was  poor  mother.  Something's  upset  her.  She 
was  crying — actually  crying.  I  don't  think  I've  ever 
seen  my  mother  cry  before.  There  she  was,  face  down 
on  her  bed,  just  howling  like  a  child " 

He  winced.  "You  must  learn,  dearest,"  he  said  gently, 
"not  to  tell  me  things  I  have  no  business  to  know." 


HAPPY  HOUSE  183 


She  looked  up  at  him  through  her  long  lashes  and 
laughed  wickedly.  "Perhaps  if  you  try  long  enough," 
she  returned,  "you'll  make  a  lady  of  me." 

But  his  face  remained  grave.  "Your  mother,"  he 
said,  "is  a  splendid  woman,  my  dear.  I've  a  very  great 
admiration  for  her." 

Griselda  loved  her  mother;  most  girls  do  love  their 
mothers,  but  this  homage,  from  a  man  she  admired  and 
respected  so  much,  surprised  her. 

"Mother?  Little  old  Mum?"  she  repeated  naively. 
"She's  a  dear,  of  course " 

Barclay  looked  down  at  her. 

"You'll  think  me  an  awful  old  fogey,"  he  said  slowly, 
"but  I  do  seriously  wish,  my  little  dear,  that  you  would 
show  a  little  more — well,  understanding,  for  your  mother 
— to  her,  I  mean." 

"Oh,  it's  you  who  don't  understand,"  she  returned  as 
gravely  as  he.  "I  understand,  we  all  do,  a  great  deal 
more  about  mother  than  she  could  bear  to  know.  Fa- 
ther's always  been  a  beast,  but  we  have  to  pretend  to 
her  that  we  don't  know  it " 

They  drove  on,  a  little  closer  together  mentally  than 
they  had  ever  been  before.  Grisel  had  been  very  sweet, 
very  womanly,  for  that  short  moment,  and  she,  for  her 
part,  had,  for  a  brief  time,  been  able  to  regard  him  less 
as  the  old  man  she  was  going  to  marry  for  his  money, 
than  as  a  kind  and  companionable  contemporary. 

Meantime  Mrs.  Walbridge  had  another  guest.  She 
had  gone  up  to  her  writing  room,  and  was  working  on 
her  new  book,  when  Jessie  announced  that  Mr.  Crichell 
was  in  the  young  ladies'  room. 

"Mr.  Crichell?" 

"Yes,  m'm,  and  he's  in  a  great  hurry." 


184  HAPPY  HOUSE 

"Didn't  he  ask  for  master?" 

"No,  m'm,"  the  girl  returned  with  decision,  "he  asked 
for  you,  quite  partic'lar,  m'm." 

It  struck  Mrs.  Walbridge  as  odd  that  Crichell  should 
have  asked  for  her,  for  she  hardly  knew  him.  But  she 
smoothed  her  hair  and  turned  down  her  sleeve,  calling 
out  to  Jessie  as  she  went  to  bring  up  some  more  tea. 

"Not  for  me,  Mrs.  Walbridge,"  Crichell  began,  hear- 
ing her  last  words.  "No  tea,  thanks.  I've  come  on  a — 
very  unpleasant  errand." 

She  saw  that  he  was  very  much  disturbed,  his  sleek 
face  being  blurred  by  queer  little  dull  red  patches.  Sit- 
ting down  by  the  fire  she  motioned  him  to  do  the  same. 
But  he  remained  standing,  his  short  legs  far  apart,  his 
hands  behind  his  back. 

"What  I  have  to  say  will  be  painful  to  you,"  he  went 
on  hurriedly.  "But  it's  no  worse  for  you  than  it  is  for 
me.  In  fact,  not  so  bad,  for  you  must  have  had  some 
kind  of  an  idea " 

He  broke  off,  seeing  from  her  face  that  she  had  even 
now  no  notion  of  what  he  was  driving  at. 

"I  don't  understand  at  all,"  she  said  quietly.  "Do 
sit  down,  Mr.  Crichell." 

"It's  no  good  beating  about  the  bush,"  he  resumed, 
still  standing.  "It's  just  this.  I'm — I'm  going  to  di- 
vorce my  wife,  and  Walbridge  will  be  co-respondent." 

"Walbridge?"  she  repeated  stupidly,  staring  at  him 
with  what  he  viciously  called  to  himself,  the  face  of  an 
idiot.  "My  husband?" 

"Yes,  your  husband — and  my  wife's  lover.  Pretty 
little  story,  isn't  it?"  As  she  was  about  to  speak,  he 
went  on,  purposely  lashing  himself,  it  struck  her,  into 


HAPPY  HOUSE  185 


a  fury.  "I've  suspected  something  for  a  long  time. 
Haven't  you?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "No."  But  as  she  spoke  she 
remembered  certain  half-forgotten  little  happenings  that 
might  have  roused  her  curiosity  had  she  been  more  in- 
terested in  her  husband. 

"Now  don't  tell  me  it  isn't  true,  because  it  is,"  he 
snapped,  again  interrupting  her  as  she  was  about  to 
speak. 

She  was  very  sorry  for  him,  and  looked  at  him  com- 
passionately as  he  stood  there  twisting  and  waving  his 
white  hands. 

"I'm  not  going  to  tell  you  it  isn't  true,  Mr.  Crichell," 
she  answered  gently.  "I  suppose  it  is,  and  I'm  very, 
very  sorry  for  you." 

Swamped  as  he  was  by  hurt  egotism,  he  did  not  fail 
to  observe  the  peculiarity  of  her  attitude. 

"Very  kind  of  you,"  he  muttered,  at  a  loss.  "I — I 
am  sorry  for  you,  too.  In  fact,  we're  in  rather  a  ridicu- 
lous position,  you  and  I,  aren't  we?"  His  loud  laugh 
was  very  shrill,  and  she  held  up  her  hand  warningly. 

"Hush." 

Then  he  sat  down  and  told  her  the  story.  How  for 
months,  ever  since  the  late  summer,  in  fact,  he  had 
noticed  a  change  in  his  wife. 

"She  always  had  a  lot  of  boys  buzzing  about  and  it 
never  occurred  to  me  to  suspect  Walbrid^e.  I — why 
he's  twenty  years  older  than  I  am — or  near  it.  I  came 
up  and  down  to  town  a  good  deal,  and  knew  they  used 
to  see  a  good  deal  of  each  other,  but,  as  I  say,  the  fact 
of  his  age  blinded  me,  damn  him!  Then,  a  week  ago, 
that  night  here,  I — I  caught  them  looking  at  each  other, 
and  when  I  got  back  from  seeing  my  mother — (it  was 


186  HAPPY  HOUSE 


Clara,  by  the  way,  who  told  my  mother  where  we  were 
going  to  be,  and  put  her  up  to  telephoning  for  me),  I 
took  the  trouble  to  find  out  what  time  she  had  got  home, 
and  found  that  he  had  come  back  with  her  and  stayed 
till  three  o'clock. 

Mrs.  Walbridge  started.  That  was  the  morning  when 
she  had  stood  by  her  husband's  bedside  watching  him  as 
he  lay  asleep. 

"So  after  that — my  God,  it's  only  a  week  ago! — I 
kept  my  eyes  open,  and  to-day  I  found  these." 

He  pulled  a  bundle  of  letters  out  of  his  breast  pocket, 
and  tossed  them  into  her  lap.  The  letters  were  tied 
with  a  piece  of  yellow  ribbon,  and  taking  hold  of  them 
by  the  ribbons,  Mrs.  Walbridge  held  them  out  to  him. 

"I  donft  want  to  see  them,"  she  said. 

"You'd  better — to  convince  you." 

"But  I  am  convinced." 

He  rose  solemnly,  and  put  the  letters  back  into  his 
pocket. 

"Then  I'll  not  detain  you  any  longer.  I  thought  I'd 
better  come  and  tell  you  myself." 

At  the  door  he  turned. 

"Dirty  trick,  wasn't  it?  Seen  enough  of  women  to 
know  better.  But  I  trusted  her " 

They  stared  at  each  other  for  a  moment,  and  then  he 
came  back  into  the  room. 

"I'm  very  sorry  for  you,  too,"  he  said  awkwardly. 
"You  take  it  so  quietly  that  I  rather  forgot " 

She  laughed  a  little.  "Perhaps,"  she  said,  "you'll 
think  better  of  it — of  divorcing  her.  There  are  so  many 
things  to  be  considered,  Mr.  Crichell." 

But  at  this  his  fury  rose  again,  and  he  shouted  that 
nothing  in  heaven  or  earth  would  prevent  his  divorcing 


HAPPY  HOUSE  187 


her.  "And  you'll  have  to  do  the  same,"  he  added,  al- 
most menacingly. 

"Why  should  I  divorce  my  husband?" 

"Surely  you  don't  want  him  after  this?" 

"I  want  him,"  she  replied  very  slowly,  as  if  feeling  for 
the  right  words,  "exactly  as  much  as  I've  wanted  him 
for  many  years,  Mr.  Crichell." 

As  she  spoke  they  heard  the  rattle  of  a  latchkey  in 
the  front  door. 

"That's  Ferdie,"  she  said  hastily.  "Oh,  you  won't 
have  a  quarrel  with  him,  will  you?" 

"No.  I've  already  seen  him — I've  nothing  more  to 
say.  How  can  I  get  out  without  meeting  him?" 

With  pathetic  knowledge  of  her  husband,  she  bade 
him  stay  where  he  was. 

"I'll  tell  him  you're  here,  and  he'll  go  into  the  dining- 
room." 

At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  she  met  Walbridge  taking  off 
his  coat,  a  curiously  boyish  look  in  his  face.  "Ferdie," 
she  said  quietly,  "Mr.  Crichell's  in  the  girls'  room." 

With  a  little  smile  of  almost  bitter  amusement,  she 
watched  him  as  he  tiptoed  into  the  dining-room  and 
closed  the  door. 

When  Crichell  had  gone  she  joined  her  husband.  He 
was  smoking  and  walking  up  and  down,  a  glass  of 
whisky  and  soda  in  his  hand. 

"Well,"  he  began  at  once,  with  the  little  nervous 
bluster  of  the  man  who  doubts  his  own  courage,  "I 
suppose  he's  told  you." 

"Yes,  he's  told  me,"  and  then  she  added,  without  see- 
ing the  strangeness  of  her  words.  "I'm  so  sorry." 

He  stared,  and  then,  with  a  little  laugh  of  relief, 
drained  his  glass  and  set  it  down. 


i88  HAPPY  HOUSE 


"It  had  to  be,"  he  announced  with  visible  satisfaction 
at  the  romantic  element  of  the  situation.  "But  I'm  sorry, 
too,  Violet,  very  sorry.  I've  fought  long  and  hard." 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  little  gleam  in  her  eyes  that 
arrested  his  attention,  although  he  told  himself  it  could 
not  possibly  be  a  gleam  of  amusement. 

"No,  Ferdie,"  she  said,  "I  don't  think  you  fought 
long  and  hard.  I  don't  think  you  fought  at  all." 

Looking  pitifully  like  a  pricked  balloon,  he  dropped 
into  a  chair  and  gripped  the  edge  of  the  dining-room 
table. 

"What  do  you  mean,  Violet?  Really!"  he  mur- 
mured, with  the  indignation  of  a  sensitive  man  con- 
fronted with  a  feminine  lack  of  delicacy. 

"Oh,  I  don't  want  to  hurt  your  feelings,  Ferdie,  and 
no  doubt  you  do  feel  extremely  romantic.  But  it  would 
save  time  if  you  didn't  try  to  be  romantic  with  me.  You 
see,  I  know  you  very  well." 

Before  he  could  gather  his  wits  together  to  answer 
her,  she  had  gone  on  quietly: 

"I  won't  tell  you  what  I  think  of  your  treating  Mr. 
Crichell  in  this  way,  after  accepting  his  hospitality  all 
winter.  It  would  not  do  any  good,  and  it  wouldn't  in- 
terest you.  But  I  am  wondering  if  you  couldn't  per- 
suade him,  in  some  way,  not  to  make  a  scandal.  Don't 
interrupt  me.  Wait  a  minute.  It  will  be  so  dreadful 
for  her — for  Mrs.  Crichell,  I  mean.  How  could  you 
have  been  so  careless  as  to  let  him  find  out?" 

Walbridge  leant  across  the  table  towards  her,  his  face 
almost  imbecile  in  his  open-mouthed  amazement. 

"Do  you — do  you  know  what  you  are  talking  about?" 
he  stammered.  "Are  you  sane  at  all?  I  never  heard 
of  such  a  thing  in  my  born  days." 


HAPPY  HOUSE  189 


"Oh,  yes,  I'm  sane  enough.  But  I  don't  want  the 
children  to  know.  It's  an  awfully  bad  example  for  Guy; 
he'll  be  home  in  a  day  or  two.  Just  think,  he's  only 
twenty-one,  and  he  doesn't  know — I  mean  he  thinks — 
oh,  yes,  it  would  be  awful  if  there  was  a  scandal." 

Ferdinand  Walbridge  made  a  great  effort  and  man- 
aged to  scramble  to  his  feet,  mentally  as  well  as  phys- 
ically. 

"My  dear,"  he  said,  modulating  his  beautiful  voice 
with  instinctive  skill,  "you  don't  understand.  This  is 
not  an  amourette.  I  love  Clara  Crichell.  It  is  the  one 
wish  of  my  life  to  make  her — to  marry  her." 

For  many  years  her  indifference  to  her  husband  had 
been  so  complete,  so  unqualified  by  anything  except  a  lit- 
tle retrospective  pity,  that  he  had  never  dreamed  of  the 
thoroughness  of  her  knowledge  of  him.  She  had  never 
cared  to  let  him  know ;  she  had  been  busy,  and  it  had  not 
seemed  worth  while,  and  now  she  found  difficulty  in 
making  him  understand  her  position,  without  unnec- 
essarily hurting  his  feelings. 

"But  you  can't  marry  her,"  she  said  slowly.  "There's 
me." 

"Surely  you'll  not  be  so  wicked  as  to  ruin  our  lives," 
he  went  on,  secretly,  she  knew,  rather  enjoying  himself, 
"because  of  an  old-fashioned,  obsolete  prejudice? 
What's  divorce  nowadays?  A  mere  nothing." 

"I  know,"  she  said  wearily,  for  she  felt  suddenly  very 
tired.  "Most  people  think  so,  but  I  don't." 

"But  you  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  want  a  man 
who  no  longer  loves  you  ?" 

It  was  nearly  six  o'clock,  and  the  room  was  lighted 
only  by  firelight.  In  the  charitable  gloom  Walbridge 
looked  very  handsome,  and  the  attitude  he  instinctively 


190  HAPPY  HOUSE 


struck  was  not  unbeautiful  theoretically.  She  looked 
at  him  for  a  moment. 

"My  dear  Ferdie,"  she  said  at  last,  "I  can't  talk  any 
more  now  because  Hermy  and  Billy  and  Mr.  Peter  Gas- 
kell- Walker  are  dining  with  us  at  half -past  seven,  and 
I've  several  things  to  see  to.  And  as  to  your  loving 
me,  you  know  perfectly  well  that  you've  not  loved  me 
for  nearly  thirty  years." 

He  was  too  utterly  baffled  to  find  a  word  in  reply,  and 
by  the  time  he  could  speak  she  had  left  the  room. 

As  he  dressed  for  dinner,  having  unsuccessfully  tried 
to  get  into  her  room,  he  reflected  with  sincere  self-pity 
that  it  was  small  wonder  he  had  fallen  in  love  with  a 
beautiful,  sympathetic  woman  like  Clara.  Violet  was 
plainly  not  quite  sane.  He  gave  a  vicious  jerk  to  his  tie 
as  he  reached  this  point. 

"Why,  damn  it  all,"  he  muttered,  "she  doesn't  seem 
to  care  a  hang!" 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

ALL  this  happened  on  a  Thursday,  and  on  the  following 
Wednesday  Mrs.  Walbridge  went  out  quietly,  and  sent 
a  telegram  to  Oliver  Wick's  office,  asking  him  to  come 
and  see  her  that  evening.  She  was  to  be  alone — alone, 
it  seemed  to  her  distracted  mind,  for  the  first  time  for 
weeks.  For  every  day  and  all  day  some  one  or  other 
of  her  family  had  been  with  her,  trying  to  persuade  her 
to  do  the  thing  her  soul  detested — to  divorce  her  hus- 
band. 

Maud  was  very  vehement.  Her  indignation  with  her 
father  knew  no  bounds,  and  Moreton  Twiss  agreed  with 
his  wife.  He  was  a  quick-witted  man,  with  a  good  gift 
of  words,  that  he  poured  out  unmercifully  over  the 
little  lady,  until  she  felt  literally  beaten  to  death. 

"It's  perfectly  disgusting  of  him,"  Maud  interrupted 
once.  "I  should  think  you  would  loathe  the  sight  of 
him.  I'm  sure  I  do." 

But  Mrs.  Walbridge  did  not  loathe  the  sight  of  her 
husband.  That  is,  she  did  not  loathe  him  appreciably 
more  than  she  had  done  for  years.  They  might  say  what 
they  liked.  Billy  Gaskell-Walker,  too,  to  her  amaze- 
ment, broke  into  the  most  hideous,  strange  language 
the  moment  the  subject  of  his  father-in-law  came  up — 
called  him  all  the  names  under  the  heavens.  But  noth- 
ing made  any  difference.  Paul  might  sneer  and  make  his 
most  razorlike  remarks  about  his  father  and  the  lady 
whom  he  wished  to  make  their  stepmother ;  Grisel  might 

191 


192  HAPPY  HOUSE 


cry  and  beg  her  mother  for  her  sake  to  put  her  father 
clean  away. 

"It's  like  a  bad  rat,  or  something,"  the  girl  said  in 
her  high  fastidiousness.  "He  makes  the  house  unpleas- 
ant." 

But  rail,  scorn,  revile  as  they  might,  Mrs.  Walbridge 
had  her  standpoint,  and  stuck  to  it.  She  did  not  believe 
in  divorce,  and  she  wasn't  going  to  divorce  her  husband. 
What  was  more,  after  three  days  of  exasperated  wran- 
gling discussion,  she  surprised  them  all  by  bidding  them 
be  quiet. 

They  were  having  tea,  all  of  them,  in  the  girls'  room. 
The  air  was  thick  with  cigarette  smoke,  and  the  two 
sons-in-law  and  Paul  were  drinking  whisky  and  soda. 
Mrs.  Walbridge,  looking  very  small  in  the  corner  of  the 
big  sofa,  suddenly  sat  bolt  upright  and  looked  angrily 
round  at  them. 

"Oh,  hold  your  tongues,  all  of  you,"  she  cried  in  a 
voice  of  authority.  "You  mustn't  speak  of  him  like  that. 
I  won't  have  it.  He's  my  husband,  not  yours.  Poor 
fellow!" 

They  all  stared  at  her  as  if  she  had  taken  leave  of  her 
senses,  which,  indeed,  one  or  two  of  them  privately  be- 
lieved she  must  have  done. 

"Oh,  mother,  how  can  you?"  It  was  naturally  Gri- 
selda,  the  baby,  who  dared  defy  her.  "You  don't  seem 
to  realise  what  an  utter  beast  he's  been,  and  how  we  all 
loathe  him  for  treating  you — yes,  you — like  this." 

"Poor  fellow,  indeed!  Have  a  little  pride,  mother," 
suggested  Paul,  as  if  he  had  said  "have  a  little  marma- 
lade." But  she  didn't  waver. 

"Yes,  poor  fellow.  I'm  extremely  sorry  for  him. 
You  none  of  you  seem  to  realise  what  a  pitiful  thing  it 


HAPPY  HOUSE  193 


is  for  an  old  man,  the  father  of  a  family  of  grown-up 
children,  to  be  making  such  a  ridiculous  spectacle  of  him- 
self." 

Literally  aghast,  they  stared,  first  at  her,  then  at  each 
other,  and  in  the  silence  she  marched  in  triumph  out  of 
the  room.  Her  misery  was  very  great,  in  spite  of  the 
queerness  of  her  attitude,  for  she  felt  keenly  the  pathos 
of  her  ut^er  detachment  of  attitude,  and  her  mind  was 
thrown  back  violently  into  the  old  days  thirty  years 
before,  when  she  had  loved  him,  when  she  had  believed 
in  him,  and  defied  and  given  up  her  whole  little  world 
for  his  sake. 

Poor  Sir  John  Barclay  still  remembered  her  unhappi- 
ness  and  preoccupation  in  the  old  days  that  summer 
at  High  Wycombe,  but  she  had  not  told  him  she  had 
been  suffering  because  she  had  been  sent  to  the  country 
by  her  furious  father  to  get  her  away  from  Ferdinand 
Walbridge.  He  did  not  know  how  she  had  hoped 
against  hope  that  Walbridge  would,  by  some  means,  find 
out  where  she  was  and  get  a  letter  to  her,  or  manage  to 
see  her.  She  had  almost  forgotten  these  things  herself, 
until  this  business  of  Clara  Crichell  had  brought  them 
back  to  her  memory.  It  was  a  tragic,  heart-breaking 
thing,  she  felt,  that  an  honest,  romantic,  deep  love  such 
as  hers  had  been  for  the  beautiful  young  man  her  father 
had  so  detested,  could  ever  die  so  utterly  as  hers  had. 

It  was  dreadful  to  her,  and  seemed  a  shameful  thing, 
that  she  could  feel  no  pang  of  jealousy  or  loneliness  in 
the  knowledge  that  her  husband,  her  companion  for 
thirty  years  and  the  father  of  her  five  children,  was  pre- 
pared to  give  up  these  children,  his  home  life  and  her 
companionship  for  another  woman.  Instead  of  what 
she  believed  would  have  been  normal  emotions,  she  was 


194  HAPPY  HOUSE 


conscious  of  a  deep  sorrow  that  he  had  been  such  a 
fool  as  to  fall  in  love  with  a  woman  of  Mrs.  Crichell's 
type,  for  she  knew  with  uncanny  clearness  exactly  what 
Mrs.  Crichell  was.  If  only  he  had  fallen  in  love  with 
someone  who  might  possibly  make  him  happy,  someone 
who  was  companionable  and  ambitious!  But  this 
woman,  she  knew,  was  so  like  himself  in  her  laziness, 
mental  vacuity  and  self-centred  one-sidedness,  that  they 
were  bound  to  destroy  each  other. 

The  whole  family  had  assumed  that  her  sole  reason 
for  refusing  the  divorce  was  a  semi-religious  objection 
to  that  institution.  It  was  true  that,  although  she  was 
not  a  religious  woman,  her  innate  respect  for  the  forms 
of  the  church  gave  her  the  greatest  possible  horror  of 
the  divorce  court,  but  she  knew,  though  none  of  the 
others  seemed  to  suspect  it,  that  if  Clara  Crichell  had 
been  a  different  kind  of  woman,  one  with  whom  she 
could,  so  to  speak,  trust  her  poor,  faulty  Ferdie,  her 
objections  would v have  been  bound  to  give  way,  in  the 
course  of  time,  to  the  combined  wishes  of  her  family 
and  friends.  And  she  was  afraid  to  utter  this  instinctive 
fear  of  Mrs.  Crichell  because,  although  she  knew  little  of 
real  life,  she  hafl  an  uncanny  knowledge  of  the  mental 
workings  of  the  men  and  women  in  books,  who  are, 
after  all,  more  or  less,  like  human  beings;  and  she  felt 
that  she  could  not  bear  to  be  misunderstood,  as  she  was 
certain  to  be  if  she  uttered  one  word  of  personal  objec- 
tion to  Mrs.  Crichell.  They  would  all  think  she  was 
jealous,  and  she  would  be  unable  to  persuade  them  that 
she  was  not. 

Oliver  found  her  pacing  up  and  down  her  drawing- 
room  in  her  afternoon  gown,  which  she  had  forgotten 


HAPPY  HOUSE  195 


to  fasten  down  the  back,  and  which  showed  a  pathetic 
strip  of  merino  petticoat. 

"Something's  wrong  with  your  back  here,"  he  said. 
"Shall  I  hook  it  up?  I  often  fasten  Jenny's  new-fan- 
gled things,  and  they  hook  up  to  her  neck.  Well,  here  I 
am,  Mrs.  Walbridge,  a  la  disposition  di  Usted." 

One  of  his  useful  little  gifts  was  a  way  of  keeping  in 
mind,  and  reproducing  with  impeccable  inflection,  little 
once-heard  scraps  of  foreign  languages,  and  somehow 
it  comforted  the  worried  woman  to  hear  him  talking 
so  much  in  his  usual  manner;  in  spite  of  Grisel's  engage- 
ment, his  world  had  not  turned  over. 

"Have  you — have  you  heard  anything  about  us 
lately?"  she  began  nervously,  as  they  sat  down,  and  she 
nodded  at  his  battered  old  cigarette  case,  held  interrog- 
atively up  to  her. 

"Yes,"  he  answered  abruptly,  his  manner  changing. 
"I  hear  that  Grisel  has  a  string  of  pearls,  and  is  grow- 
ing very  fond  of  her  aged  suitor." 

"He's  not  an  aged  suitor,  and  you  mustn't  call  him 
one." 

"Well,  then,  her  gay  young  spark.  It  doesn't  really 
matter,  and  she's  not  really  happy,  and  I  know  it,  and 
so  do  you." 

"Oh,  Oliver,  please  don't  make  me  unhappy,  about 
that.  Things  are  bad  enough  without  Grisel's  coming 
to  grief." 

He  pricked  his  ears.  "What  do  you  mean — things 
are  bad  enough?  What's  happened?  I'm  not  going 
to  worry  you.  I'm  sorry " 

"It's  about — it's  about  Mr.  Walbridge.  I  don't  quite 
know  how  to  tell  you." 


196  HAPPY  HOUSE 


Oliver  looked  hastily  round  the  room.  "Oh,  no,  he's 
not  here.  He  went  away  yesterday  morning." 

"Gone  away?  Good  heavens!  Has  he  been  losing 
money?" 

"No;  he  has  no  money,"  she  answered  simply.  "It's 
much  worse  than  that.  It's — it's  about  a  lady." 

He  gave  a  long  whistle.  "By  golly!  Is  it,  though? 
Then  I'll  bet  it's  that  over-ripe  woman  who  sat  next 
him  at  dinner — the  painter's  wife." 

"Yes,  it  is.    They  have  fallen  in  love  with  each  other." 

The  young  man  threw  his  cigarette  in  the  fire  in  his 
excitement. 

"No!  They  can't  have.  Why,  bless1  me,  he's  an  old 
man — I  beg  your  pardon.  But  he  isn't  young,  is  he?" 

"That  doesn't  matter.  He's  fallen  in  love  with  her 
and  Mr.  Crichell's  found  out." 

"My  hat!    The  man  with  the  nasty  fingers." 

"Yes.  And  they're  all  after  me — not  a  soul  stands 
up  for  me,  Oliver.  So  that's  why  I  sent  for  you.  I 
thought  perhaps  you  would." 

"Of  course  I  will.  You  want  someone  to  see  you 
through  divorcing  him.  Well,  I'm  your  boy.  Have  you 
got  a  solicitor?  And — excuse  me  speaking  so  plainly — 
have  you  got  proofs?" 

She  laughed  forlornly  at  his  mistake.  "Oh,  my  dear, 
you've  got  it  all  wrong.  It's  the  other  way  about.  It's 
they ^  that  want  me  to  divorce  him  and  I — I  won't." 

His  face  changed.  He  looked  at  her  with  surprise 
and  commiseration  in  his  eyes. 

"Oh,  I  see,"  he  said  quietly.     "I  didn't  understand." 

He  felt  that  it  would  be  indecorous  for  him  to  ask 
this  old  lady,  as  he  considered  her,  whether  she  really 
cared  for  the  husband  he  had  always  found  so  unpleas- 


HAPPY  HOUSE  197 


ant,  but  he  could  in  no  way  account  for  her  refusing  to 
take  the  obvious  course. 

She  saw  his  perplexity  and  went  straight  to  the  point. 
"You  see,"  she  said,  "I  know  what  you  are  thinking, 
but  I've  known  Mr.  Walbridge  for  a  long  time,  and  I 
know  that  he  couldn't  possibly  be  happy  with  a  woman 
as  selfish  and  self-centred  as  Mrs.  Criehell." 

"Then  you  want  him  to  be  happy?"  He  spoke  very 
gravely,  his  voice  sounding  like  that  of  a  man  very  much 
older  than  himself. 

She  was  grateful  to  him  for  not  showing  any  surprise 
at  her  attitude. 

"Oh,  yes.  I  should  like  him  to  be  happy.  You're  too 
young  to  understand,  Oliver.  I  hope  you  never  will 
understand.  But  I'm  not  at  all  angry  with  him,  and 
I've  always  disliked  Mrs.  Criehell  very  much." 

"So  have,  I.  Couldn't  bear  her,  and  neither  could 
my  mother.  But  why  did  you  send  for  me,  Mrs.  Wai- 
bridge?  I'll  do  any  mortal  thing  for  you,  but  the  better 
I  understand,  the  more  useful  I  shall  be." 

"Oh,  I  just  want  you  to  stand  up  for  me  when  they 
all  attack  me,  and  try  to  make  me  divorce  him." 

"I  see.  I  certainly  think  the  choice  ought  to  be  yours. 
But,"  he  added,  "1  don't  agree  with  you.  I — I  think 
you're  making  a  mistake.  By  the  way,  has  the  lady  any 
money  ?" 

"Oh,  yes,  she's  quite  well  off." 

There  was  a  pause,  at  the  end  of  which  he  said,  "Well, 
I — it  beats  me.  Why  do  you  suppose  she  wants  him?" 
Then  he  added,  feeling  that  he  had  failed  in  tact,  in  thus 
speaking  of  the  man  who,  after  all,  was  his  companion's 
husband,  and  whom  she  wanted,  in  her  queer  way,  to 
help.  "Well,  it  beats  me." 


198  HAPPY  HOUSE 


"Mr.  Walbridge  has  always  been  considered  a  very 
handsome  man,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  of  complete  clarity 
and  explanation.  And  then  the  door  opened  and  Gri- 
selda  came  suddenly  in,  wrapped  in  a  big  fur-collared 
velvet  cloak. 

"Oh!"  she  exclaimed,  on  seeing  Wick.  "I  didn't 
know  anyone  was  here.  They  all  went  on  to  the  opera," 
she  said,  sitting  down  and  letting  her  cloak  slip  back, 
"and  my  head  ached — I  think  I've  a  cold  coming  on — so 
I  got  a  taxi  and  came  home.  How  are  you,  Oliver,  and 
how  is  your  mother?  I  saw  Jenny  the  other  day,  but 
I  was  in  a  taxi  and  she  didn't  see  me." 

"They're  both  well,  thanks,"  he  answered.  "It's  a 
long  time  since  I  saw  you,  young  lady." 

"Yes,  it  is." 

There  was  a  pause,  and  Mrs.  Walbridge  glanced  anx- 
iously from  one  to  the  other  of  the  two  painstakingly 
indifferent  faces. 

"No  letters,  mother?"  the  girl  asked. 

"Yes,  there  are  two  for  you.    One  from  Sir  John." 

"Good,  I'll  go  and  get  them."  She  held  out  her  hand 
to  Oliver.  "Then  I'll  go  on  up  to  bed.  I  really  do  feel 
rather  bad.  Good-night." 

He  held  her  hand  closely.  "You're  a  nice  young 
minx,"  he  told  her,  laughing.  "I  suppose  you  think  I 
ought  to  congratulate  you  on  your  engagement." 

"It's  a  matter  of  complete  indifference  to  me  whether 
you  do  or  not." 

"Grisel,  Grisel!"  put  in  her  mother. 

Still  he  held  her  hand,  his  critical  eyes  looking  her  up 
and  down. 

"Good-night,"  she  said  again,  trying  to  withdraw  her 
hand. 


HAPPY  HOUSE  199 


"You're  losing  your  looks,"  he  declared.  "You're 
too  thin,  and  your  eyes  are  sunk  into  your  head.  It 
won't  do,  Grisel.  You'll  have  to  give  in.  You  used  to 
be  the  prettiest  thing  alive,  and  unless  you  own  up  to 
your  old  gentleman  and  confess  to  me  that  you  can't 
live  without  me,  you'll  soon  have  to  join  the  sad  army 
of  the  girls  who  aren't  so  pretty  as  they  feel." 

She  was  furiously  angry — so  angry  that  she  could  not 
speak,  and  when  he  suddenly  let  go  her  hand,  she  stum- 
bled back  and  nearly  fell.  She  left  the  room  without  a 
word,  and  he  sat  down  and  hid  his  face  for  a  moment  in 
his  hands. 

Mrs.  Walbridge  was  indignant  with  him,  but  somehow 
she  dared  not  speak,  and  after  a  minute  he  rose. 

"I'll  go  now,"  he  said.     "I'm  done.    Little  brute!" 

"I'm  so  sorry  for  you,"  she  said,  which  was  quite  dif- 
ferent from  what  she  had  meant  to  say. 

"I  know  you  are,  and  I  deserve  it;  I  deserve  every- 
body's pity.  But  damn  it  all,"  he  added,  with  sudden 
brightness,  pushing  back  the  strands  of  straight  dun- 
coloured  hair  that  hung  down  over  his  damp  forehead, 
"I'll  get  her  yet." 

She  went  with  him  to  the  door,  and  they  stood  on  the 
step  in  the  bitter  cold  of  the  still  night. 

"You'll  stand  by  me  then  ?  You'll  believe,"  she  added 
earnestly,  laying  her  hand  on  his  sleeve,  "that  I'm 
not  just  being  a  cat ;  that  I  really  am  doing  what  I  know 
will  be  best  for  him  in  the  long  run?" 

"If  you  suddenly  spat  at  me  and  scratched  my  eyes 
out  and  ran  up  the  wall  there,  and  sat  licking  your  fur,  I 
shouldn't  believe  you  were  a  cat.  But,  mind  you,  Mrs. 
Walbridge,  I  think  you  are  making  a  great  mistake. 


200  HAPPY  HOUSE 


What  on  earth  will  you  do  with  him  about  the  house  in 
this  frame  of  mind?" 

"Oh,  don't  make  it  any  harder  for  me.  I  know  that 
I'm  right." 

They  parted  very  kindly,  and  she  went  back  into  the 
house,  knowing  that  he  would,  as  she  expressed  it,  take 
sides  with  her.  But  something  of  the  virtue  of  her 
resolution  seemed  to  have  gone  out  of  her,  for,  young  as 
he  was,  she  respected  his  shrewdness  and  his  instinct, 
and  it  depressed  her  to  know  that  he  disapproved  of  her 
determination. 

The  next  evening,  Wick  dined  with  the  Gaskell-Walk- 
ers  in  Campden  Hill.  He  was  the  only  guest,  and  Her- 
mione  told  him  at  once  that  they  had  sent  for  him  in  or- 
der to  talk  over  this  disgusting  business  of  her  father's. 
When  Gaskell-Walker  had  laid  before  him  the  combined 
reasons  of  the  whole  tribe  for  wishing  for  the  divorce, 
Wick  sat  down  his  glass  and  looked  at  his  host. 

"I  agree  with  every  word  you've  said,"  he  answered, 
without  unnecessary  words.  "It's  a  great  mistake,  but 
I  know  why  she's  doing  it." 

"That's  more  than  any  of  us  knows,"  mourned  Her- 
mione.  "I  feel  that  I  never  wish  to  look  my  father  in 
the  face  again." 

"Oh,  that's  going  too  far,"  the  young  man  protested. 
"He's  an  awful  old  scoundrel,  of  course,  but  still,  there 
are  plenty  more  like  him." 

Before  they  parted,  Wick  uttered  a  word  of  wisdom. 
"She  won't  give  in  to  you,  or  any  of  you,  or  to  me," 
he  said.  "There's  nothing  so  obsinate  in  this  world  as 
a  good  woman  fighting  for  a  principle,  and  the  fact  that 
the  principle  is  perfectly  idiotic  has  no  bearing  on  the 
case.  But  your  mother's  an  old-fashioned  woman,  Mrs. 


HAPPY  HOUSE  201 


Gaskell-Walker,  and  she's  written  so  many  sentimental 
stories  that  her  whole  mind  is  coloured  by  them.  If  you 
can  get  Mrs.  Crichell  to  go  to  your  mother  and  grovel 
and  tear  her  hair  and  cry,  your  mother  would  divorce 
your  father."  Then  he  went  his  way. 

"By  Jove !"  Gaskell-Walker  said  to  his  wife.  "I  be- 
lieve he's  right.  Stout  fellow!  I'll  put  your  father  up 
to  this.  I'll  look  him  up  at  lunch  at  Seeley's  to-morrow." 


CHAPTER  XIX 

MRS.  WALBRIDGE  never  told  any  of  her  children  what  it 
was  that  made  her  so  suddenly  decide,  two  days  after 
her  interview  with  Oliver  Wick,  to  do  as  her  husband 
begged  her,  and  give  him  his  freedom,  as  he  invariably 
called  it.  Freedom  is  a  prettier  word  than  divorce,  and 
he  had  a  natural  instinct  for  eliminating  ugly  words 
from  his  life,  although  he  had  never  been  very  particu- 
lar about  steering  clear  of  the  deeds  to  which  the  words 
fitted. 

"Very  well,  Ferdie,"  she  said  to  him,  the  Sunday 
morning  when  he  came  to  get  his  clothes  and  various 
little  belongings.  "You  shall  have  it,  your  freedom.  I'll 
give  it  to  you." 

In  his  muddle-headed  gratitude,  he  nearly  kissed  her. 
She  drew  back,  an  irrepressible  smile  twitching  at  her 
lips.  He  was  such  a  goose! 

"I  think,"  he  said  "you  had  better  get  Gaskell-Walker 
to  manage  things  for  you.  It — it  might  be  rather  awk- 
ward for  Paul.  You  see,  we  can't  have  her  name 
brought  into  it" — there  was  actual  reverence  in  his  voice 
at  the  words — "and  I'll  have  to  take  certain  steps." 

"Oh,  I  know,"  she  said  quietly.  "She  told  us  yester- 
day. Don't  have  any  more  in  the  papers  than  you  can 
help,  will  you?"  she  added,  "it's  all  so  horrid." 

"Oh,  her  name  won't  be  mentioned  at  all — thanks  to 
your  kindness,"  he  added,  a  little  grandiloquently. 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  queer  expression.    "I  wasn't 

202 


HAPPY  HOUSE  203 


thinking  of  her  name.  I  was  thinking  of  ours — yours 
and  mine,  and  the  children's,  Ferdinand." 

He  winced  when  she  called  him  Ferdinand.  It  re- 
minded him  of  some  earlier,  painful  scenes  in  their  life, 
when  she  had  been  unable  to  pronounce  the  shorter  ver- 
sion of  his  name. 

He  rose  and  walked  up  and  down  the  ugly  room.  "I 
hope  you  believe,"  he  began,  clearing  his  throat,  "that 
I'm  very  sorry  about  all  this.  Such  things  are  always 
unpleasant,  but  I  assure  you,  Violet,  that  it — it  was 
stronger  than  I." 

"We  needn't  go  into  that.  Have  you  enough  money 
to  live  comfortably  till  your  marriage?" 

He  nodded.  "Oh,  yes.  I  signed  my  papers  with  Bar- 
clay the  day  he  went  away,  you  know,  and  have  been 
at  the  office  every  day.  I — I  intend,"  he  went  on,  grop- 
ing for  words,  "to  give  you  half  of  my  salary;  that's 
two  hundred  and  fifty  a  year,  and  I  thought  perhaps 
if  you  moved  into  a  smaller  house, — there  will  only  be 
you  and  Guy  then,  and  he'll  soon  be  earning  something 
— that — that  you  might  manage  to  get  on  all  right." 

She  nodded.  "Oh,  yes,  I  shall  manage."  She  didn't 
add  that  up  to  this  she  always  had  managed  to  keep, 
not  only  herself,  but,  for  the  greater  part  of  their  mar- 
ried life,  him  as  well. 

"I'm  sorry  about  that  business  of  your  books,"  he 
resumed,  with  another  awkward  pause,  during  which  he 
took  a  cigarette  out  of  a  very  beautiful  new  gold  case, 
which  he  hurriedly  stuffed  back  into  his  pocket.  "I 
hope  this  new  one  will  be  a  success.  I  do,  really, 
Violet." 

She  looked  at  his  nervous,  heated  face  with  a  queer, 
incongruous  pity  that  seemed  to  her  almost  undignified. 


204  HAPPY  HOUSE 


"I'm  sure  you  do,  Ferdie,"  she  answered  kindly. 
"There's  no  reason  on  earth  why  you  should  not  wish  me 
well.  I  certainly  wish  you  every  happiness." 

He  was  relieved  and  grateful  at  her  lack  of  resent- 
ment, but  at  the  same  time  it  qiqued  him  a  little. 
He  felt  that  it  was  not  altogether  normal  of  her  to  take 
things  quite  like  this.  He  looked  at  her  curiously,  and 
her  face  seemed  old,  very  plain,  linked  as  it  was  to  his 
memory  of  Clara  Crichell's  luscious  beauty.  He  was 
very  sorry  for  her,  not  only  for  being  that  most  con- 
temptible of  creatures,  an  old  woman  without  charm,  but 
also  because  she  was  losing  him. 

They  parted  in  the  most  friendly  way,  after  he  had 
telephoned  for  a  taxi  and  laden  it  with  his  various  boxes 
and  bags. 

"Where  shall  I  send  your  letters?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  you  mustn't  know  where  I  am,"  he  declared 
nervously,  "or  they'll  bring  in  collusion.  Gaskell-Walker 
will  do  it  all  for  you."  He  paused  on  the  step,  looking 
up  at  the  house  into  which,  thirty  years  ago,  they  had 
come  together,  full  of  hopes  and  plans,  and  across  his 
still  beautiful,  degenerate  face  there  swept  a  little  cloud 
of  sentimental  regret.  "Life's  a  queer  thing,  isn't  it?'1 
he  murmured,  taking  off  his  hat  and  standing  bare- 
headed. 

She  nodded.  "Yes,  it  is."  Then  she  added  quickly, 
"Never  mind,  Ferdie,  it's  all  right.  The  children  will 
come  round  after  a  bit.  It's  natural  they  should  be  an- 
noyed just  at  first." 

"If  ever  there's  anything  I  can  do  for  you,"  he  added, 
incongruously,  "after  this  business  is  over,  of  course, 
you'll  let  me  know,  won't  you?" 

He  went  his  way,  and  she  stood  looking  after  him. 


HAPPY  HOUSE  205 


It  was  all  remarkably  odd,  but  perhaps  oddest  of  all  was 
that  he  had  failed  to  understand  at  the  end  of  all  these 
years,  how  little  she  could  miss  him;  that  it  had  always 
been  she  that  had  taken  care  of  him,  and  that  therefore 
that  it  was  he  who  would  miss  the  prop  for  the  loss  of 
which  he  was  conventionally  compassionating  her. 

For  several  days  after  this,  nothing  at  all  happened, 
and  the  attention  of  her  little  world  was  turned  towards 
Hermione,  whose  mother-in-law  had  unexpectedly  died, 
leaving  her  an  attractive,  though  not  very  valuable,  col- 
lection of  old  jewelry.  The  inspection  and  re-designing 
of  these  treasures  came  as  a  real  boon  to  the  whole 
family. 

"I  feel  as  if  my  mind  had  been  washed  again  after 
this  nasty  business  of  father's,"  Maud  Twiss  declared, 
after  two  or  three  days  of  excitement.  "I  think  Hermy's 
wrong  to  have  those  opals  set  that  way,  but  then  they're 
her's  and  not  mine,  so  it  doesn't  matter.  What  a  pity 
the  old  lady  had  such  a  passion  for  cameos — they  don't 
suit  Hermy  at  all — but  I'd  give  my  head  for  that  star 
sapphire." 

It  was  the  I2th  of  February,  and  Maud  had  arrived 
first  of  the  little  group  of  people  invited  to  dine  at 
"Happy  House"  in  honour  of  Paul's  birthday. 

Mrs.  Walbridge  had  not  felt  much  inclined  for  any 
festivities,  but  Paul  for  some  reason  insisted  on  a  little 
party,  and  the  atmosphere  being  cleared  by  the  progress 
of  the  regular  proceedings  towards  the  divorce,  the  oth- 
«rs  had  backed  him  up.  Sir  John  Barclay  was  still  away, 
and  Moreton  Twiss  had  been  obliged  to  go  to  an  annual 
Club  dinner,  but  the  Wicks  were  coming,  and  Paul  had 
added  various  delicacies  to  the  menu  in  a  way  that  was 
so  like  his  father,  that  his  mother  was  a  little  saddened 


206  HAPPY  HOUSE 


by  it.  Paul  too,  she  knew,  would  always  be  able  to  spend 
money  on  things  that  pleased  him,  and  she  foresaw  that 
he  would  never  have  a  penny  for  dull  details  like  gas 
bills  or  cooks.  He  even  brought  in  an  armful  of  flowers, 
and  Maud,  who  had  a  new  tea-gowny  garment  for  the 
occasion,  arranged  them  for  him,  in  the  very  vases  his 
father  had  bought  to  hold  his  orchids  the  night  of  the 
Christmas  Eve  party.  It  seemed  years  ago,  Mrs.  Wai- 
bridge  thought,  and  yet  it  was  only  about  seven  weeks. 

Grisel  had  objected  strongly  to  the  Wicks  being  in- 
vited. She  pretended  to  be  very  annoyed  with  Oliver 
for  what  she  called  his  idiotic  and  underbred  behaviour 
that  night  when  she  had  come  in  after  the  dinner-party. 

"He's  sure  to  be  tiresome  again,  mother.  His  peculiar 
brand  of  humour  doesn't  happen  to  appeal  to  me."  But 
when  Mrs.  Walbridge  had  suggested  to  Paul  that  the 
Wicks  were  not  absolutely  necessary  to  his  birthday 
party  he  declared  pettishly  that  there  wouldn't  be  any 
party  if  it  wasn't  for  Jenny  Wick.  She  was  the  best 
accompanist  he  had  ever  had,  and  an  extremely  nice  girl 
— not  a  bit  like  her  cub  of  a  brother. 

Grisel  might,  of  course,  have  dined  out,  but,  like  many 
other  families,  although  they  quarrelled  with  each  other, 
and  did  not  particularly  like  each  other,  the  Walbridges 
yet  hung  together  in  a  helpless,  uncongenial  kind  of  way, 
and  always  remembered  and  mildly  recognised  each  oth- 
er's birthdays. 

Grisel  came  downstairs  while  Maud  was  putting  the 
last  touches  to  the  red  and  white  roses  that  had  been 
Paul's  choice.  The  girl  had  a  new  frock  of  black,  with 
heavy  gold  embroidery,  and  though  very  pale  and  heavy- 
eyed,  her  beauty  was  undeniably  growing,  as  the  baby 
curves  left  her  face  and  what  can  only  be  called  the  ele- 


HAPPY  HOUSE  207 


gance  of  its  bony  structure  became  more  apparent.  Her 
jaw-bone  was  a  thing  of  real  beauty,  and  the  likeness 
of  her  brow  to  her  mother's  was  very  great. 

"Oh,  Grisel,  what  a  love  of  a  frock!"  Maud  cried, 
kissing  her.  "Where  did  you  get  it?" 

"Greville  and  Ross.    Glad  you  like  it." 

Maud  settled  the  last  Jacquemenot  in  its  place,  and 
put  her  arm  round  her  sister's  waist.  "Let's  go  into 
the  drawing-room,"  she  said.  "I'd  hate  going  upstairs. 
Never,  never  again  shall  I  have  another  baby." 

"You  look  beautiful,  Maud,"  the  girl  assured  her 
earnestly.  "It  suits  you  somehow." 

"Nonsense!  But  what's  the  matter  with  you,  dear? 
You  look  tired  out." 

"Yes,  I've  been  making  a  fool  of  myself.  Three 
dances  in  the  last  five  days." 

"When's  John  coming  home?" 

They  sat  down  on  the  uncomfortable  sofa  under  the 
gilt  mirror,  and  Griselda  leant  back  against  a  non-exist- 
ent cushion,  and  sat  up  with  a  little  scowl. 

"Oh,  he  will  be  back  in  a  day  or  two,  thank  goodness. 
Oh,  Maud,  I  have  missed  him  so;  you  have  no  idea," 
she  insisted,  "how  much  I  have  missed  him!" 

Before  her  marriage  Maud  Twiss,  who,  after  all,  was 
nine  years  older  than  Grisel,  had  been  rather  jealous  of 
her  little  sister's  greater  charm  and  beauty.  But  since 
she  had  been  married  her  feelings  had  changed  and  the 
sisters  had  grown  towards  each  other  a  little.  Hermione 
had  always  been  more  selfish  than  Maud,  and,  besides, 
she  and  Grisel  had  much  the  same  hair  and  profiles,  so 
the  youngest  girl  had  always  been  inclined  to  like  the 
eldest  one  best.  They  sat  there  on  the  sofa  discussing 
things  in  general,  but  avoiding  two  subjects — the  divorce 


208  HAPPY  HOUSE 


and  Oliver  Wick.  Fortunately  the  Gaskell-Walkers  ar- 
rived before  the  Wicks,  and  shortly  after  the  arrival  of 
Jenny  and  Oliver,  Bruce  Collier  turned  up  with  a  young 
Frenchman  as  fifth  man. 

Everyone  had  some  kind  of  present  for  Paul,  who 
accepted  them  with  extreme  seriousness  and  regarded 
himself — most  unusual  in  a  young  Englishman — as  the 
legitimate  centre  of  attraction  of  the  evening.  Paul  had 
a  disconcerting  way,  for  all  his  disagreeable  mannerisms 
and  selfishness,  of  doing  certain  things  that  reminded  his 
mother  almost  unbearably  of  his  babyhood  and  little 
boyhood.  And  this  evening,  as  he  stood,  as  pleased  as 
possible,  at  the  little  table  where  all  his  presents  were 
spread  out,  she  wondered  if  the  others  were  as  struck 
as  she  was  by  the  incongruity  of  his  manner.  Red- 
headed little  Jenny  Wick,  who  stood  near  her,  read  her 
thoughts. 

"Isn't  he  funny,"  the  girl  said  in  an  undertone,  shak- 
ing her  fat  silk  curls  and  wrinkling  up  her  snow-white 
but  befreckled  little  nose.  "He's  just  like  a  baby.  I 
wish  I  had  brought  him  a  rattle." 

"They're  all  like  babies,"  murmured  Mrs.  Walbridge 
absently,  her  eyes  fixed  on  space.  "Every  one  of  them." 

"Have  you  heard  the  news?"  the  girl  asked,  mysteri- 
ously, drawing  her  hostess  a  little  to  one  side,  under 
pretence  of  looking  at  a  picture  near  the  mantelpiece. 

"News!  No,  what  news?"  Poor  Mrs.  Walbridge 
started,  for,  at  the  present  crisis  in  her  life,  all  news 
seemed  to  point  towards  her  own  domestic  trouble. 

Jenny  looked  very  wise.  "He'll  be  telling  you  himself, 
no  doubt,  but  I  don't  mind  telling  you  first.  It's  Oliver." 

Mrs.  Walbridge  looked  at  young  Wick,  who  was  talk- 
ing, with  every  appearance  of  complete  happiness,  to 


HAPPY  HOUSE  209 


Hermione,  with  whom  he  was  very  good  friends. 
"What  is  it?"  she  asked.  "I've  not  seen  him  for  nearly 
a  fortnight." 

"I  know.  He's  been  very  busy.  The  fact  is  he's  en- 
gaged to  be  married,  and  we  see  hardly  anything  of  him, 
mother  and  I." 

Mrs.  Walbridge  felt  the  ground  rock  under  her  feet. 
How  could  it  be  possible  that  Oliver  Wick  was  engaged 
when  only  a  few  nights  ago  he  had  sat  before  her  in  the 
room  downstairs  shaken  to  the  heart  by  misery  about 
Grisel?  "Are  you — are  you  sure?"  she  faltered. 

Jenny  laughed.  "Well,  I  ought  to  be.  WTe  hear  noth- 
ing but  Dorothy  from  morning  till  night — that  is,  when- 
ever we  do  see  him,  he  talks  of  nothing  else.  And  isn't 
it  ridiculous,  her  name's  Perkins?" 

"Dorothy  Perkins!  That  is  a  coincidence.  I'm  sure 
I  hope  they'll  be  very  happy.  Does  your  mother  like 
her?"  the  poor  lady  murmured,  trying  to  get  her  bear- 
ings. 

"Oh,  we've  never  seen  her,  mother  and  I.  She  lives 
at  Chiswick  and  her  mother's  an  invalid,  so  she  hardly 
ever  leaves  her.  We've  seen  her  picture,  though,  and 
she's  lovely." 

Dinner  was  announced  at  that  moment,  and  Mrs. 
Walbridge,  never  as  long  as  she  lived,  could  remember 
one  thing  about  the  meal,  except  that  young  Latour,  who 
sat  next  to  her  and  knew  not  a  word  of  English,  had  the 
most  beautiful  manners  she  had  ever  seen  in  her  life, 
and  really  almost  made  her  believe — almost,  but  not 
quite — that  the  few  remaining  crumbs  of  her  schoolgirl 
French  that  she  was  able  to  scrape  together  and  offer 
him,  were  not  only  comprehensible  but  eloquent.  He 
was  a  very  small  young  man  with  black  hair,  so  smooth 


210  HAPPY  HOUSE 


and  glossy  that  it  looked  like  varnish,  and  a  long,  long 
white  nose,  sensitive  nostrils  and  bright  darting  eyes 
like  those  of  an  intelligent  bird.  Bruce  Collier,  who 
prided  himself  on  his  perfect  French,  tried  at  first  to 
translate  the  conversation  of  the  young  man  and  his 
hostess  to  each  other,  but  "Mossioo  Latour,"  as  Mrs. 
Walbridge  laboriously  called  him,  waved  aside  his  of- 
fered aid  with  a  cigarette-stained,  magnanimous  hand. 

"Mais  non,  mais  non,  melez  vous  de  vos  affaires,  mon 
cher,"  he  protested,  "Nous  nous  entendons  parfaitement 
bien,  n'est-ce  pas,  Madame  Vollbridge  ?" 

And  Mrs.  Walbridge  nodded  and  said,  "Oh  ooee." 
She  said  "oh  ooee"  rnany  times,  also  "Je  ne  say  pas" 
and  "N'est-ce  pas."  And  she  loved  the  young  man  for 
his  painstaking  courtesy.  But  after  a  while  he  drifted 
naturally  into  a  more  amusing  dialogue  with  Hermione, 
whom  he  obviously  admired  very  much,  and  Mrs.  Wal- 
bridge was  left  to  her  confused  realisation  of  the  utter 
perfidy  of  man.  Oliver  Wick  engaged!  She  would 
have  been  burnt  at  the  stake  for  her  belief  in  the  reality 
of  his  love  for  Griselda ;  yet  there  he  was,  radiantly 
happy,  chattering  and  joking  with  everyone  in  turn,  and 
no  doubt,  the  mother  thought,  with  most  unjust  and  in- 
consequent anger,  the  picture  of  that  Dorothy  Perkins 
in  his  pocket.  And  she  looked  at  Griselda's  over-tired, 
nervous  little  face  and  hated  Oliver  Wick. 

"  The  Wicks,  who  were  spending  the  night  with  some 
friends  in  the  neighbourhood,  were  the  last  to  leave,  for 
Jenny  and  Paul  (who  had  sung  a  great  deal  and  un- 
usually well  during  the  evening)  had  some  new  songs  to 
try.  So  after  all  the  others  had  gone,  the  two  went  to 
the  piano  and  set  to  work  on  seriously  trying  over  some 


HAPPY  HOUSE  211 


rather  difficult  music  of  Ravel  and  some  of  the  more 
modern  Russians. 

Mrs.  Walbridge,  Grisel,  and  Oliver  sat  by  the  fire,  Oli- 
ver extremely  busy  roasting  chestnuts,  which  he  offered 
in  turn  to  his  hostesses  on  an  ash-tray.  He  was  squat- 
ting in  front  of  the  grate,  laughing  and  jesting  with 
every  appearance  of  an  almost  silly  satisfaction  with  life, 
and  when  at  last,  even  Mrs.  Walbridge  refusing  to  eat 
any  more  burnt  chestnuts,  he  rose  with  a  sigh  and  sat 
down  between  them. 

"What  a  delightful  evening,"  he  said.  "That's  a 
lovely  gown,  Grisel.  I  don't  think  I  ever  saw  you  look 
better." 

"Thanks,"  she  murmured. 

"When's  Sir  John  coming  back?" 

She  started  and  looked  at  him  in  surprise;  it  was  the 
first  time  that  he  had  mentioned  Sir  John's  name  that 
evening. 

"He'll  be  back  the  day  after  to-morrow." 

"You  must  be  awfully  glad,"  he  said  sympathetically. 

There  was  a  little  pause  while  the  music  rose  to  a 
loudness  greater  than  was  comfortable  as  a  background 
to  conversation.  Then  he  said  gently,  "I'm  sorry  I 
made  such  a  fool  of  myself  the  last  time  I  saw  you, 
Grisel.  I  meant  it,  you  know.  I  was  perfectly  serious — > 
puppy  love,  you  know !  Heavens,  how  I  must  have  bored 
you!  Well,  it's  all  over  now  and  I've  made  my  man- 
ners. And  now,"  he  added  with  a  look  of  proud  shy- 
ness in  his  face,  "I've  got  something  to  tell  you." 

"Yes?"  Grisel  murmured. 

"It's  this.  I — I'm  engaged  to  be  married  to  the  sweet- 
est girl  in  all  the  world." 

The  words  seemed  vaguely  familiar  to  Mrs.   Wai- 


212  HAPPY  HOUSE 


bridge,  and  then  she  realised  that  she  had  written  them 
often. 

"Her  name  is  Perkins,  isn't  it?"  said  Mrs.  Walbridge 
kindly,  but  with  ludicrous  effect. 

"Mother!"  said  Grisel  sharply. 

Wick  took  a  leather  case  from  his  pocket.  "Here's 
her  picture,"  he  said.  "You're  the  very  first  people  I've 
shown  it  to,  except  my  dear  old  mother  and  my  little 
sister." 

This,  too,  seemed  vaguely  familiar  to  the  novelist.  In- 
deed, she  had  a  feeling  that  none  of  the  conversation  was 
true — that  she  was  writing  it  in  one  of  her  own  books. 

Grisel  took  the  photograph  and  held  it  towards  her 
mother;  they  looked  at  it  together. 

"Oh,  she's  beautiful!"  Mrs.  Walbridge  cried  in  amaze- 
ment. 

He  nodded.  "Isn't  she?  And  this  picture  isn't  half 
good  enough.  You  see,  her  colouring  is  so  wonderful !" 

"She's  lovely,"  Grisel  said  slowly,  "simply  lovely.  I 
think  I've  seen  her  somewhere,  too." 

He  took  the  photograph  and  gazed  at  it  in  dreamy 
ecstasy. 

"If  you  ever  had,"  he  said,  "you  couldn't  possibly 
forget  her."  Then  he  added  shyly  to  Mrs.  Walbridge, 
"Isn't  it  wonderful  that  such  a  girl  could  ever  have 
looked  at  a  fellow  like  me?" 

Paul's  beautiful  voice,  so  utterly  unlike  himself,  rose 
and  fell  softly  in  a  charming  song  of  Chausson's  about 
lilacs,  and  there  was  a  little  silence  for  a^  minute. 

"Mrs.  Perkins  is  an  invalid,"  Oliver  went  on  at  last, 
when  he  had  put  the  picture  away  in  his  left-hand  breast 
pocket,  "so  my  poor  girl  hardly  ever  leaves  her.  She's 
a  most  devoted  daughter." 


HAPPY  HOUSE  213 


"H'm!" 

"I  beg  your  pardon?"  he  asked  turning  deferentially 
to  Grisel. 

"Oh,  no — I  didn't  say  anything.  Do  tell  us  more 
about  the  Perkins  family,"  she  said  with  a  grand  air. 

"About  the  father  and  mother?  Oh,  there  isn't  much 
to  tell.  Except  that  they  have  managed  to  produce 
Dorothy.  The  father's  a  painter — a  very  bad  painter. 
A  charming  old  man.  Looks  like  William  de  Morgan; 
big  forehead,  you  know — white  hair.  They  are  very 
poor,  but  of  course  that  doesn't  matter." 

Mrs.  Walbridge  was  beginning  to  feel  more  comfort- 
able, and  shook  her  head  in  unqualified  assent. 

"Of  course  it  doesn't,  as  long  as  you — love  each 
other." 

"Ah!"  the  young  man  murmured,  his  voice  ringing 
unmistakably  true,  "I  love  the  girl  all  right." 

"She'll  value  your  constancy,  I  should  think,"  Gri- 
selda  drawled,  "ridiculous  creature  that  you  are," 

He  gazed  at  her  humbly. 

"You're  quite  right  to  laugh  at  me,"  he  returned,  "I 
did  make  a  perfect  fool  of  myself  about  you,  but,  after 
all,  I'm  not  so  very  old,  you  know." 

"How  can  you  be  sure,"  she  asked,  trying  to  look  like 
a  dowager,  "that  you  really  do  love  now  ?  I  should  think 
that  you'd  be  a  little  nervous  about  it/' 

The  music  had  ceased,  and  his  sister  came  forward. 

"Come  along,  Oily,  we  must  be  off.  It's  frightfully 
late." 

She  began  to  roll  up  her  music,  and  Wick  answered 
Griselda's  question. 

"I'm  perfectly  sure,"  he  said  gravely,  "that  I've  found 


214  HAPPY  HOUSE 


my  girl — what  poets  call  my  mate.    And  I  shall  love  her 
till  I  die." 

"I  hope  you  will,  I'm  sure,"  put  in  Mrs.  Walbridge 
warmly,  to  cover  Grisel's  unkind  air  of  distance.  And 
when  she  had  let  the  Wicks  out  of  the  door  with  Paul, 
she  hurried  upstairs  to  reprove  her  daughter  for  her  un- 
sympathetic manner,  but  Griselda  had  gone  to  bed. 


EARLY  the  next  morning  old  Mrs.  Wick,  who  also  had 
been  spending  the  night  in  town  with  the  friends  where 
her  children  were  staying,  was  gratified,  while  she  was 
still  in  bed,  by  a  visit  from  her  son,  who  burst  into  the 
room  apparently  more  than  delighted  with  himself  and 
the  way  his  particular  world  was  wagging. 

"A  most  beautiful  party,  mother,"  he  exclaimed, 
wrapping  himself  up  in  her  eiderdown,  for  his  pyjamas 
were  old,  and  worn,  and  chilly.  "And  the  wretch  looked 
lovelier  than  ever." 

"I  hope  you  aren't  going  to  backslide,  Oliver,"  shei 
said  severely,  taking  her  spectacles  out  of  their  old  case 
and  putting  them  on  so  that  she  might  look  at  him  over 
their  tops. 

"Oh,  dear  no,  but  I  don't  mind  owning  to  you,  mother, 
that  if  it  wasn't  for  Dorothy,  I  might  be  in  danger! 
She  used  to  be  a  fairy  princess,  but  now  she's  a  princess 
of  ideal  royalty.  Such  a  beautiful  gown — worth,  I'm 
sure,  twenty-five  guineas,  and  a  little  string  of  lovely 
pearls — his  gift,  and  the  big  ruby.  I  shall  never,"  he 
added  thoughtfully,  "be  able  to  dress  poor  Dorothy  like 
that." 

His  mother  regarded  him  suspiciously. 

"Oh,  go  on,"  she  said,  "with  your  Dorothy." 

He  rose,  and  did  a  few  steps  of  the  "Bacchanal  a  la 
Mordkin,"  whistling  the  music  through  his  teeth.  "Speak 
not,  oh  aged  one,"  he  then  cried,  striking  an  attitude, 

215 


216  HAPPY  HOUSE 


"with  disrespect  of  the  moon-faced  and  altogether  irre- 
proachable Dorothy." 

Mrs.  Wick  shook  her  head.  "I'm  really  sorry  for  you, 
Oliver,"  she  said.  "You're  so  silly,  and  as  to  your 
Dorothy  Perkins,  I  believe  her  name's  Harris." 

He  grinned.  "Well,  perhaps  it  is.  After  all,  there's 
very  little  difference  between  Perkins  and  Harris.  And 
it's  done  the  trick.  Oh,  mother,  you  should  have  seen 
me!  I  was  an  absolute  gem  of  half-shamefaced  love- 
sickness." 

"I  don't  see  why  you  had  to  tell  all  that  rubbish  to 
Jenny  and  me,"  the  old  woman  protested,  a  little  of- 
fended, rubbing  her  nose  with  her  thumb. 

"But  of  course  I  had  to !  Jenny's  seeing  that  soft  idiot 
of  a  Paul  every  day,  and  would  be  sure  to  give  it  away." 
He  chuckled.  "I  saw  her  whispering  it  as  a  great  secret 
to  the  old  lady  and  she  was  so  surprised  she  never  ate  a 
bit  of  dinner — it  was  a  good  dinner,  too." 

"You're  a  rascal,"  his  mother  declared  comfortably, 
"and  you  deserve  to  have  her  marry  twenty  old  gentle- 
men." 

He  sat  down,  his  face  suddenly  grave. 

"Ah  no,  mother.  All's  fair  in  love  and  war.  I  haven't 
yet  made  up  my  mind  which  of  the  two  this  is,  but  it's 
one.  She's  a  pig-headed  little  brute,  my  lovely  love 
is,  and  as  obstinate  as  a  mule.  She's  made  up  her  mind 
to  marry  this  man  and  be  rich  and  comfortable,  and  I 
don't  think  anything  on  earth  could  have  stopped  her, 

except "  he  grinned  wickedly,  "just  this — jealousy. 

She  nearly  died  with  jealousy  before  my  eyes.  Ah,  if  you 
could  have  heard  her!  Tlease  tell  us  more  about  the 
Perkins  family,'  "  he  mimicked,  "and  her  little  chin  went 


HAPPY  HOUSE  217 


further  and  further  in  the  air.     She  hated  me  like  hell! 
— but,  oh,  she  loved  me !" 

A  maid  knocked  at  the  door  and  brought  in  a  little 
round  tray  with  a  cup  of  tea  on  it. 

"Your  tea's  in  your  room,  sir,"  she  said.  And  then  he 
sent  her  to  bring  it  to  him. 

"I  want  you  to  go  and  see  them,  mother.  You  aren't 
to  go  and  tell  Jenny,  mind  you,  that — that  her  name's 
Harris,  but  I  want  you  to  go  to  'Happy  House' — what 
a  name  for  it,  by  the  way! — and  tell  them  all  sorts  of 
things  about  the  Perkins.  Don't  forget  that  they  live 
at  Chiswick,  and  that  the  old  man's  an  unsuccessful  ar- 
tist— miniatures,"  he  added  thoughtfully,  "is  his  line, 
and  Mrs.  Perkins  is  an  invalid. 

"Yes,  I  know.  You  told  us  that.  What's  the  matter 
with  her?  Heart  disease,  I  suppose." 

"Not  at  all.  Stomach.  She  never  digests  anything 
except — what  do  you  call  it — koumiss.  Yes,  she  lives 
on  koumiss." 

"When  are  you  going  away,  Oliver?"  the  old  lady 
asked  presently,  between  two  sips  of  what  is  to  Britons 
closer  to  nectar  than  any  other  liquid  on  earth. 

"Either  to-night  or  to-morrow.  And  oh,  I  forgot, 
don't  say  anything  to  them — the  'Happy  House'  people, 
I  mean — about  me  and  my  doings." 

"Why,  don't  they  know  about  Sparks?" 
/'Nope.  They  don't  know  anything  about  what  has 
been  happening  lately.  They  think  I'm  still  the  penniless 
reporter.  That's  very  important,  too.  It's  the  penniless 
reporter  Miss  Minx  has  got  to  propose  to,  not  the  latest 
and  favourite  discovery  of  the  Great  Chief." 

"I   don't   think   that's   quite    fair,"   his  mother   said. 


218  HAPPY  HOUSE 


"After  all,  it's  a  great  deal  to  expect  any  girl  to  marry 
a  young  man  who  is  penniless  as  well  as  a  nobody." 

"But  I'm  not  a  nobody,  and  I'm  going  to  be  a  very 
big  somebody,  and  she  ought  to  know  that  I  shall  be  a 
success.  Did  the  girl  think,"  he  added  angrily,  waving 
his  arm,  "that  I  would  let  her  starve,  or  send  her  on 
the  stage  to  keep  me?  No.  She  ought  to  have  under- 
stood, and  now  she's  got  to  be  punished." 

She  felt,  this  wise  and  clever  old  hen,  that  this  hatch- 
ling  of  hers  was  not  even  an  ordinary  barnyard  duck; 
that  he  was  a  wild,  alien  bird,  capable  of  almost  any 
flight. 

"Well,  my  dear,  your  description  of  Dorothy  Perkins 
has  rather  made  my  mouth  water,"  she  declared,  as  he 
rose  and  took  a  look  out  of  the  passage  to  see  if  he  could 
nip  back  unobserved  to  his  room  (he  had  forgotten  to 
bring  his  dressing-gown).  "Such  a  lovable,  home-keep- 
ing, devoted  daughter  you  made  her!" 

"Exactly.  Where  I  was  canniest  though,"  he  re- 
turned, "was  when  I  made  her  perfectly  lovely  as  well. 
That  little  brute  would  never  believe  in  a  plain  girl." 

"But  where  did  you  get  the  photograph?  It  really 
is  exceptionally  lovely." 

"I  bought  her  at  a  photographers  in  Birmingham, 
when  I  was  there  the  week  before  last.  I  had  to  take 
the  man  out  to  lunch  to  persuade  him  to  sell  it.  She's 
an  Irish  girl — was  governess  to  some  rich  Jew  in  Edg- 
baston,  and  she  married  a  vet.  in  the  army,  and  has  gone 
to  Egypt,  so  it's  as  safe  as  a  church.  Now  mind,  moth- 
er," he  bent  over  and  kissed  her,  and  gave  her  a  little 
hug,  "mind  you  don't  give  it  away  to  Jenny.  I  shall 
be  back  in  about  a  week,  and  you  must  keep  the  flag 
flying  for  me  while  I'm  away." 


HAPPY  HOUSE  219 


"All  right,  dear,  I  will.  I  don't  like  telling  lies,  but 
I  do  it  very  well  when  I  want  to.  Any  brothers  and  sis- 
ters— the  Perkins's,  I  mean?" 

"No.  Only  child.  I'm  going  to  lunch  to-day,"  he 
said,  "with  some  of  our  other  editors — ahem!  I  see 
myself  being  very  chummy  with  the  editor  of  the  English 
Gentleman.  Oh,  Lord!" 

"Yes,  dear.  Wait  a  minute,  Oily.  Just  suppose,"  his 
mother  said,  looking  at  him  seriously  over  her  glasses, 
"just  suppose  that  things  did  go  wrong,  and  that  after 
all  she  married  Sir  John  Barclay." 

He  stood  still,  put  his  hand  on  the  door,  an  almost 
grotesque  figure  in  his  faded  pink  and  white  striped 
flannel  pyjamas. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said  slowly.  "It  would  be  pretty 
bad,  mother;  worse  than  you  think."  After  a  pause 
he  shook  his  head  and  opened  the  door  wide.  "It  isn't 
going  to  happen,"  he  said,  "and  I'm  not  going  to  weaken 
myself  by  looking  at  the  bad  side  of  things."  Then  he 
went  out  and  she  heard  his  door  close. 

An  hour  later,  as  Oliver  went  downstairs  to  breakfast, 
the  telephone  bell  rang  and,  as  he  was  expecting  a  call 
from  the  office,  he  answered  it.  The  thing  buzzed  for 
a  minute  and  then  he  heard  a  voice  say,  "Is — is  that 
Mr.  Catherwood's  house?" 

Putting  his  hand  over  the  receiver  and  turning  his 
head  well  away,  the  young  man  answered  in  a  loud  and 
fervid  whisper,  "Yes,  you  blessed  lamb,  you  little  darling 
devil,  it  is  Mr.  Catherwood's  house!"  Then  he  took 
his  hand  away  and  said  in  an  affected  voice,  "Yes, 
moddom." 

"I  have  tried  three  Catherwoods  in  the  book,"  con- 


220  HAPPY  HOUSE 


tinued  the  voice,  struggling  with  nervous  hesitation.  "I 
don't  know  the  Christian  name  of  the  one  I  am  looking 
for,  but  is  there  a  Mr.  Wick  staying  there?" 

"Yes,  moddom." 

"Will  you  please  call  him  to  the  phone.  Tell  him  it's 
Miss  Griselda — I  mean  Miss  Walbridge — Bridge — 
B-r-i-d-g-e." 

Dancing  with  joy,  his  voice  perfectly  steady,  he  pre- 
tended to  misunderstand  her.  "Miss  Burbridge, 
moddom  ?" 

"No,  no — oh,"  and  a  little  troubled  sigh  chased  the 
laughter  from  his  face. 

"I'll  call  him,"  he  said,  almost  forgetting  himself  and 
adding  "moddom"  spasmodically.  Then  after  a  moment 
he  spoke  in  his  own  voice.  "Hallo,  what  is  it?  Is  it 
you,  Grisel?" 

"Yes,  oh  Oliver,  I  have  had  such  a  time  getting  you. 
Listen,  we're  in  awful  trouble.  Guy's  dying  in  Paris 
and  they  have  telegraphed  for  mother  to  come.  The 
telegram  came  late  last  night.  She's  never  been  out  of 
England  in  her  life  and  hasn't  the  slightest  idea  how  to 
travel  and — and  Paul  won't  be  able  to  go;  he  couldn't 
get  a  pass  now  the  Peace  Conference  is  on — a  friend  of 
his  tried  last  week  in  almost  the  same  circumstances, 
and  he  couldn't " 

"I  know,  I  know." 

"Mother  wants  you  to  come  round  and  tell  her  about 
things.  Paul  will  go  to  the  Foreign  Office  for  her,  but 
she  knows  you  know  Paris  well,  and  then  you  can  tell 
her  about  getting  there — trains,  and  so  on,  on  the  other 
side  of  the  channel.  Will  you  come  ?" 

He  came  perilously  near  forgetting  the  Perkins's  at 
that  moment. 


HAPPY  HOUSE  221 


"I'll  come  at  once.  Perhaps  you'll  give  me  some 
breakfast?" 

"Oh,  yes,  anything.    Do  come." 

Then  he  added,  "What  a  pity  Sir  John  isn't  here. 
He  would  have  been  a  great  comfort  to  you  now." 

"Yes,"  vaguely,  "wouldn't  he?  Oh,  we're  all  so 
frightened  about  Guy." 

"What's  the  matter  with  him,  do  you  know?"  he 
asked,  as  Mr.  Catherwood  came  downstairs  and  nodded 
to  him  through  the  banisters.  Grisel  explained  that  it 
was  pneumonia  following  on  "flu,"  and  he  heard  her 
blow  her  poor  little  nose. 

Promising  to  come  round  at  once,  he  went  and  ex- 
plained to  his  host,  and  ten  minutes  later  jumped  out 
of  his  taxi  and  ran  up  the  steps  of  "Happy  House." 

Grisel  and  Mrs.  Walbridge  were  at  breakfast,  but  Paul 
had  hurried  off  straight  to  the  house  of  some  minor 
Foreign  Office  official  whom  he  happened  to  know. 
Mrs.  Walbridge  already  had  her  hat  on,  he  noticed,  and 
anything  more  helpless  and  pathetic  than  her  haggard, 
tear-stained,  bewildered  face  Oliver  thought  he  had 
never  seen  in  his  life.  She  kissed  him  absent-mindedly 
as  if  he  had  been  a  son,  and  he  sat  down  and  Grisel  plied 
him  with  food. 

Grisel,  who  had  been  crying  (for  she  and  Guy  were 
nearly  of  an  age  and  had  always  been  fond  of  each 
other),  said,  "You  never  saw  him — he  is  such  a  dear! 
Oh,  it's  too  cruel  to  have  fought  all  through  the  war, 
and  now " 

"Hush,  hush,"  he  said,  patting  her  wrist  with  a  fine 
imitation  of  brotherly  detachment,  "give  the  poor  boy 
a  chance.  Who  sent  the  telegram?" 

"A  nurse." 


222  HAPPY  HOUSE 


"H'm.    Where  is  he?" 

"He's  at  a  private  hospital.  The  telegram's  in  mother's 
bag." 

As  she  spoke,  the  maid  brought  in  the  letters,  and 
Grisel  looked  through  them  listlessly.  One,  addressed 
in  firm,  bold  writing  to  herself,  Wick  knew  instinctively 
must  come  from  Sir  John.  There  was  only  one  for 
Mrs.  Walbridge,  and  as  Grisel  handed  it  to  her  mother 
she  said: 

"Don't  open  it,  dear.  I'm  sure  it's  only  a  bill."  Mrs. 
Walbridge  did  not  even  look  at  it. 

"What  time  does  the  train  start,"  she  asked  im- 
patiently. "Oliver,  you  must  help  me.  I've  never  been 
out  of  England,  and  I  can't  speak  French." 

Grisel  opened  her  letter  and  read  it  through  indiffer- 
ently. "John  will  be  back  to-morrow  night." 

"Oh,  then  you'll  be  all  right,  darling,"  Mrs.  Walbridge 
returned.  "You'd  better  go  and  stay  with  Hermy.  Or 
would  you  rather  have  Miss  Wick  come  and  stay  with 
you  here?" 

"I  don't  want  anyone  to  come  and  stay  with  me,  and 
I  don't  want  to  go  to  Hermy's.  I  shall  stay  here,  where 
I  belong.  Oh,  mother,  mother,  if  only  we  knew — if  only 
we  knew" 

She  bent  down  over  the  table  and  burst  into  tears, 
crying  into  her  poor  little  handkerchief,  that  Wick  saw 
had  already  received  more  than  its  share  of  moisture. 
He  took  a  nice  clean  handkerchief  from  his  own  pocket, 
and  gave  it  to  her. 

"Take  this,"  he  said  kindly.  "It's  got  some  Florida 
water  on  it  too." 

She  took  it,  between  a  laugh  and  a  moan,  and  buried 
her  face  in  its  happy  folds.  Then  he  took  out  a  notebook 


HAPPY  HOUSE  223 


and  his   famous   fountain  pen,   and   began  to  scribble. 

"Are  you  writing  notes  down  for  me?"  Mrs.  Wai- 
bridge  asked.  "Put  down  all  the  little  things.  Re- 
member that  I  know  absolutely  nothing  about  travel. 
Oh,  if  only  Paul  could  have  gone  with  me." 

He  noticed  that  neither  of  them  had  mentioned,  or 
apparently  so  much  as  given  a  thought  to  the  absent 
husband  and  father. 

"Paul  couldn't  get  a  permit,  as  you  said  on  the  tele- 
phone. Things  have  tightened  up  worse  than  ever  now 
that  the  Peace  Conference  has  really  begun." 

Mrs.  Walbridge  nodded.     "I  know." 

He  rose  and  put  his  pen  in  his  pocket.  "I  must  be 
off  now,"  he  said.  "I've  several  things  to  do.  Can  you 
arrange  to  go  by  the  one-thirty  train  ?" 

"Yes.  Paul  rang  up  this  Mr.  White,  and  he  said  he 
would  manage  to  pull  it  through." 

"Good."  The  young  man  went  to  the  desolate  little 
woman  and  put  his  hand  on  her  shoulder.  "Cheer  up, 
Mrs.  Walbridge,"  he  said.  "Lots  of  people  pull  through 
pneumonia,  and  I  believe  Guy's  going  to.  I  have  a  kind 
of  feeling  that  he  is." 

She  smiled  at  him,  a  little  consoled,  as  one  often  is  by 
just  such  foolish  hopefulness. 

"If  only  there  wasn't  that  Conference,"  she  said, 
beautifully  disregarding  the  world's  interests,  "then  Paul 
could  come  with  me." 

"Well,  Paul  can't,  but — now,  listen  to  me — I  can,  and 
I'm  going  to." 

She  stared  at  him.     "To  the  station,  you  mean?" 

"No,  I  don't.  I  mean  to  Paris.  Now  you  mustn't 
keep  me.  I've  got  a  thousand  things  to  do,  but  I'll  be 
here  in  a  taxi  at  twelve  o'clock.  Shall  I  get  the  tickets?" 


224  HAPPY  HOUSE 


"Oh,  yes,  do.  Oh,  how  good  you  are !"  In  her  relief 
and  gratitude  she  leant  her  head  against  his  shoulder  and 
cried  a  little.  Grisel  looked  on,  very  pale  and  tense. 
"Can — can  you  leave  Miss  Perkins?"  she  asked  for- 
lornly. 

For  a  moment  he  trembled  on  the  brink  of  abject 
confession.  Then  he  girded  up  his  loins. 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  said.  "She'll  quite  understand.  Very 
understanding  girl.  I — I'll  ring  her  up  from  the  office." 

"If — if  you'd  like  to  ring  her  up  from  here" — Grisel's 
voice  shook  a  little,  and  he  bent  his  face  over  Mrs.  Wai- 
bridge's  jaded  hat  to  hide  a  smile  of  triumph  that  he 
could  not  repress — "mother  and  I  will  be  upstairs  in  my 
room — with  the  door  shut." 

"No,  thanks.  I've  got  to  get  to  the  office  anyhow, 
and  I'll  ring  her  up  from  there." 


CHAPTER  XXI 

GUY  WALBRIDGE  did  not  die.  He  was  very  ill,  and 
many  weeks  passed  before  his  mother  could  bring  him 
back  to  England;  but  after  the  first  part  of  her  stay 
in  Paris  he  was  out  of  danger,  and  her  letters,  particu- 
larly those  she  wrote  to  Caroline  Breeze,  showed  that 
she  was  having  a  happy  time.  One  of  these  letters  had 
perhaps  better  be  given,  as  it  explains  a  good  many 
things.  She  went  to  Paris  on  the  I3th  of  February. 
This  letter  was  written  the  first  Tuesday  in  March,  and 
was  dated  at  a  boarding-house  in  the  Rue  St.  Ferdinand. 
One  evening  after  dinner  Grisel,  to  whom  Caroline  had 
brought  the  letter  in  the  afternoon,  according  to  direc- 
tions in  it,  read  it  aloud  to  Oliver  and  Jenny  Wick  and 
Sir  John  Barclay,  as  they  sat  round  the  fire  in  the  girls' 
room. 

"She  really  seems  to  be  having  a  good  time,"  Grisel 
began,  taking  the  thin  sheets  out  of  the  envelope  and 
throwing  the  end  of  her  cigarette  into  the  fire.  "I'm 
glad  too.  She  needed  a  change." 

Barclay  smiled  at  her.  "Isn't  it,"  he  asked,  "the  first 
change  your  mother  has  ever  had?" 

She  nodded.  "Yes.  I  know  you  think  we're  awful, 
the  way  we  treat  her,  John,"  she  added,  "but  she  never 
wanted  to  go  away.  I  think  her  best  holidays  have 
always  been  when  we  were  all  off  staying  somewhere, 
and  she  had  the  house  to  herself." 

"I  don't,"  commented  Jenny  Wick,  with  a  shrewd 

225 


226  HAPPY  HOUSE 


little  grimace.  "I  think  she  likes  best  to  have  you  one 
at  a  time — all  to  herself." 

Oliver  said  nothing.  It  was  the  second  time  that  he 
had  been  to  the  house  since  his  return,  but  the  first  in 
which  he  had  been  there  quite  in  this  way — en  famille 
— for  the  two  brothers-in-law  were  there  on  the  other 
occasion,  and  there  had  been  things  about  the  journey 
to  Paris  that  he  had  not  cared  to  tell  them. 

"Well,  never  mind  that,"  he  said.  "Go  on  with  the 
letter." 

"  'My  DEAR  CAROLINE/ — The  first  part's  about — oh, 
about  Caroline's  landlady's  twins — not  very  interesting. 
Let  me  see.  Oh,  here  we  are:  We've  been  for  a  long 
drive  in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne.  You've  no  idea  how 
different  it  is  from  Hyde  Park,  but  it's  very  nice,  just 
the  same.' " 

"Speaks  the  Islander,"  from  Wick. 

"'It  is  very  cold  here,  colder,  I  think,  than  London, 
but  it's  clear  and  sunny.  I  feel  very  well,  and  in  the  last 
few  days  I  have  begun  to  get  fatter;  you'll  be  surprised 
to, hear,  Caroline,  that  I've  had  to  let  out  my  afternoon 

dress.  I  got  a  very  nice  piece  of '  Oh,  I  won't  read 

this." 

"Yes,  do,"  shouted  Oliver.  "I  want  to  know  what 
she  got  a  nice  piece  of." 

'  'Of  lace  at  the  Galleries  Lafayette,  and  a  little 
woman  here  has  made  me  a  fichu  that  quite  brightens  up 
the  old  black  satin/  Isn't  she  a  dear  ?  '/  went  to  Notre 
Dame  this  morning.  It's  beautiful,  and  I  like  the  homely 
way  poor  people  come  in  and  say  their  prayers  for  a  few 
minutes  and  then  go  out  again.  There  were  two  market 
baskets  full  of  vegetables  just  inside  the  door  this  morn- 
ing, and  a  flower-girl  burning  candles  before  a  statue. 


HAPPY  HOUSE  227 


Of  course  it's  idolatrous,  but  it's  a  very  pretty  custom/ ' 

Oliver  laughed.  "Imagine  one  of  the  Piccadilly  Circus 
flower-girls  strolling  in  for  a  moment's  spiritual  comfort 
to  Westminster  Abbey !" 

"  'I  bought  some  very  nice  scones  at  a  little  shop  near 
the  Louvre,  and  Guy  did  enjoy  them  with  his  tea.  But 
guess  what  they  cost,  my  dear.  Fifty  centimes  apiece — 
sixpence!  The  prices  here  are  perfectly  dreadful.  Oh, 
I  bought  E.  V.  Lucas's  "Wanderer  in  Paris,"  and  go  out 
for  a  couple  of  hours  every  day,  when  Guy  doesn't  want 
me,  with  it,  and  it's  very  delightful.  Paris  must  have 
changed  very  much,  and  no  one  could  call  it  gay  now, 
and  I  never  saw  such  deep  mourning  in  my  life.  Half 
the  women  are  in  black,  real  old-fashioned  widows' 
weeds,  not  like  our  war  widows'  little  ballet  skirts. 

''  'It's  quite  as  east-windy  and  dusty  as  London,  and 
the  taximen  are  perfect  fiends.  They  say  that  the  fam- 
ily of  anyone  killed  by  a  vehicle  is  obliged  to  pay  jot 
obstructing  the  traffic.  Of  course  if  this  is.  true,  it 
explains  why  they  drive  so  fast' " 

Sir  John  laughed.  "This,  I  take  it,  is  the  novelistic 
imagination  of  which  we  hear  so  much." 

'  'Thanks  very  much  for  sending  me  "Haycocks"  and 
"Bess  Knighthood."  I've  read  "Haycocks,"  and  like  it 
very  much  in  some  ways,  but  as  for  "Bess  Knighthood," 
how  could  it  have  taken  that  prise?  Fancy  getting  a 
thousand  pounds  for  such  a  book!  I  saw  it  at  Brentano's, 
and  the  man  told  me  everybody  was  reading  it.  I  think 
it's  rather  a  cruel  book,  and  I  don't  believe  any  family 
could  really  be  quite  so  horrid' " 

Grisel  looked  up.  "That's  true.  They  were  perfect 
brutes,  weren't  they?  Poor  old  Mum!  I  suppose  she's 
a  little  jealous.  I  loved  it  myself!" 


228  HAPPY  HOUSE 


"It's  going  to  be  dramatised.  Did  I  tell  you,  Grisel?" 
Wick  lighted  a  cigarette  as  he  spoke.  "It'll  make  a 
splendid  play.  I  never  heard  of  the  author  before,  did 
you?  E.  R.  East.  Man  or  woman?" 

"Oh,  woman,  of  course.  No,  I  don't  think  I  ever 
heard  of  her  before.  What  a  wonderful  thing,"  Grisel 
added,  "to  get  a  thousand  pounds  prize  just  for  writing 
a,  story." 

"Just  for  writing  a  story."  Wick  grinned.  "Philis- 
tine!" 

"Oh,  mother  speaks  about  that — listen: 

"  'Do  you  remember  that  day,  Caroline  dear,  when  you 
wanted  me  to  write  a  book  for  the  competition?    Just 
imagine  "Sunlight  and  Shadow"  or  "One  Maid's  Word" 
being  judged  by  the  Committee  that  awarded  that  thou- 
sand pounds!" 

"Poor  mother.  I  musn't  forget  to  tell  her  when  I 
write  that  Mr.  Payne  wrote  a  very  nice  letter  about  her 
new  book.  It's  coming  out  in  a  few  days.  I  do  hope 
it'll  be  a  success,  poor  darling.  You  know,  it's  a  dreadful 
thing,  John,  but  I  can't  get  through  a  book  of  mother's 
nowadays." 

"Can't  you,  my  dear?" 

"No.  They  are  about  such  dull  people.  I  wish  I 
liked  them,  because  she  must  know  I  don't." 

"Oh,  she's  used  to  that,"  he  answered.  "Paul  is  re- 
markably frank  about  it.  But  go  on ;  finish  the  letter." 

The  next  page  was  devoted  to  a  description  of  the 
famous  pictures  and  statues  which  Mrs.  Walbridge  was 
making  a  point  of  seeing.  It  was  plainly  a*  surprise  to 
her  that  this  had  turned  out  to  be  not  altogether  an 
unpleasant  fulfilment  of  duty. 

"  7  really  love  some  of  the  pictures,'  she  explained 


HAPPY  HOUSE  229 


naively,  'and  I  almost  forgot  to  come  home  for  lunch  the 
day  I  went  to  the  Luxembourg.  Some  day  I  shall  try  to 
make  time  to  go  to  the  National  Gallery.' '' 

Wick  groaned.  "Oh — oh  dear!  She's  like  a  child," 
he  said.  "Why,  do  you  know,  she  positively  trembled 
with  excitement  when  the  train  stopped  and  she  first 
noticed  one  of  those  long,  straight  roads  edged  with 
poplars — the  kind  that  are  always  in  illustrated  maga- 
zines. She  even  thought  the  fisher  wives  with  their  caps 
picturesque.  I'm  going  to  take  her  on  some  sprees  in 
London  when  she  gets  back.  We're  going  to  the  Tower 
together,  and  she  wants  to  see  the  Cathedral  at  St.  Al- 
bans." 

( 'There's  a  lady  in  the  house,' "  Grisel  began  again, 
after  an  unamiable  glance  at  the  young  man,  "  'who's 
been  buying  clothes  to  go  to  South  America  with.  Yes- 
terday I  went  with  her  to  two  or  three  dressmakers,  and 
the  things  really  are  lovely,  Caroline.  Of  course  they 
seem  very  young,  and  one  or  two  of  this  Mrs.  Hammer- 
ton's  would  have  looked  to  me  childish  on  Grisel,  but  it's 
the  fashion  here,  and  they  certainly  do  wear  their  clothes 
better  than  we  do.  I've  got  a  lovely  hat  for  Grisel — 
black.  (All  the  prettiest  hats  seem  to  be  black.)  And 
Hermy  will  be  delighted  with  an  evening  frock  I  have 
got  for  her.  Maud's  box  went  off  the  other  day.  You 
never  saw  such  darling  little  things  in  your  life.  I  wish 
I  could  be  home  to  help  nurse  her,  but  Dr.  Butler  won't 
let  Guy  come  back  for  a  long  time  yet,  and  he  wants  us 
to  go  to  Cannes  at  the  end  of  next  week.  Doesn't  it 
seem  odd  that  I  should  be  travelling  about  like  this  at 
my  time  of  life?  I  wonder  if  the  Mediterranean  really 
is  as  blue  as  people  say!  I  wish  Oliver  was  going  to  be 


230  HAPPY  HOUSE 


here.  I  rather  dread  the  journey,  although  Guy  really 
speaks  good  French  now. 

"  7  wish,  my  dear,  you  would  go  and  see  Ferdie  and 
look  over  his  things.  It  would  be  perfectly  safe  for  you 
to  go,  as  you  aren't  one  of  the  family.  I  had  a  very  nice 
letter  from  him  the  other  day — about  Guy,  of  course — 
but  he  seems  to  feel  it  rather  difficult  to  look  after  his 
own  underclothes,  and  so  on.  I  don't  suppose  he  has  a 
whole  sock  to  his  name '  " 

Grisel  broke  off  and  looked  round  her  audience.  "Isn't 
that  just  like  Mum?"  she  said.  "I  suppose  she'll  be 
mending  Mrs.  Crichell's — no,  Mrs.  Walbridge's — things 
by  this  time  next  year." 

"I  saw  Crichell  to-day,"  said  Sir  John  gravely.  "The 
case  is  down  one  of  the  first  in  the  Trinity  term.  They've 
got  all  the  evidence  and  so  on.  Ugh!  What  a  beastly 
business  it  is!  The  woman  ought  to  be  whipped;  and 

as  for  your  father,  my  dear "  He  broke  off,  and 

Grisel  laughed. 

"Oh,  go  on.  Don't  spare  father.  I'm  sure  I  don't 
mind  what  you  say  about  him.  Paul  saw  him  dining 
somewhere  with  the — lady  who  has  sold  herself  as  scape- 
goat. I  should  think  there  would  be  a  good  deal  of 
money  in  that  kind  of  job  nowadays.  Quite  an  idea!" 
she  added  flippantly. 

"Oh,  shut  up,  Grisel."     It  was  Jenny  who  spoke. 

But  Grisel  sat  with  the  letter  on  her  lap.  An  idea 
had  occurred  to  her — an  idea  that  would  have  occurred  to 
anyone  less  self -engrossed  than  she  many  weeks  before. 

"John,"  she  burst  out,  "is  father  still  in  that  office 
of  yours?" 

"Yes." 


HAPPY  HOUSE  231 


"But — but  how  can  he  stay?  Wouldn't  you  rather 
have  him  go?" 

Barclay  came  back  to  his  chair.  "No,"  he  said  quietly. 
"I  prefer  to  have  him  stay." 

"But "  She  flushed  and  rose.  "But  how  can  he 

stay  and  take  your  money  when  you  feel  about  him  as 
you  do?" 

"It's  quite  all  right,  my  dear.  Business  is  one  thing 
and  friendship  another." 

But  she  over-rode  his  words.  "Nonsense!  You  only 
gave  him  a  job — well,  it's  a  kind  of  charity  now  that 
you're  no  longer  friends." 

"Nonsense,  Grisel."  It  was  Wick  who  spoke.  "You 
don't  seriously  think  that  Sir  John  would  have  given 
your  father  the  job  unless  he  knew  he  was  going  to  be 
useful?  Business  men  don't  do  that  kind  of  thing.  Isn't 
that  right,  sir?" 

Barclay  bowed  his  head.  "Yes.  It  is  your  father's 
knowledge  of  French  that  is  of  value  to  me.  His  domes- 
tic difficulties  have  made  no  change  in  that." 

Grisel  had  forgotten  all  about  little  Jenny,  with  whom 
she  was  not  very  intimate,  and  went  on  rapidly,  her 
pride  aflame. 

"Is  he  going  to  stay  on  in  your — in  your  employ,  then, 
after  his  marriage  to  that  disgusting  woman?" 

"I  hope  so.  You  forget,"  Barclay  added  in  a  grave 
voice,  "that  if  your  father  were  not  working  he  would 

be  unable  to  continue  to  support  your  mother  and " 

he  hesitated  a  little  "you." 

She  shivered  and  went  to  the  fire.  "I  see.  Yes,  I 
see,"  she  murmured.  Then  she  picked  up  the  letter 
again,  and  read  them  a  detailed  account  of  what 
the  doctor  had  told  her  mother  about  Guy's  condition. 


232  HAPPY  HOUSE 


The  letter  ended  by  asking  Miss  Breeze  to  take  it  to 
"Happy  House,"  as  the  writer  was  too  busy  to  set  it 
all  down  a  second  time. 

Grisel  folded  it  up,  and  put  it  back  into  the  envelope. 

"My  mother  had  a  note  from  her,"  Wick  remarked, 
"two  or  three  days  ago,  it  was.  And  she  sent  Jenny 
two  pairs  of  gloves.  I  like  to  think,"  he  added,  "of  her 
there  in  Paris  running  about  with  the  E.  V.  Lucas  under 
her  arm,  seeing  things  she  has  always  heard  of.  She 
also,"  he  added,  "wrote  a  charming  note  to  Miss  Perkins." 

"Did  she  ?    Has  Miss  Perkins  written  to  her  ?" 

He  nodded.  "Yes.  She  was  awfully  touched  by  the 
letter.  So  was  Mrs.  Perkins.  Your  mother's  promised 
to  go  and  see  them  as  soon  as  she  gets  home." 

Grisel  smiled  with  a  touch  of  condescension.  "By 
the  way,  as  she's  so  confined  to  the  house  by  her  mother's 
health,  you  might  take  me  to  see  her  one  afternoon. 
Or — or  Sir  John  would  let  us  go  in  the  car." 

Sir  John  nodded.     "Any  day  you  say,  my  dear." 

Wick  was  terrified  for  a  moment,  and  then  agreed  to 
the  proposal  with  becoming  enthusiasm. 

"That  would  be  kind  of  you,"  he  answered.  "I've 
been  longing  to  suggest  it,  but  didn't  quite  like  to." 

She  looked  at  him  sideways,  and  he  saw  her  knuckles 
whiten. 

"When  can  you  go?"  he  went  on,  pursuing  his  ad- 
vantage with  a  beaming  face.  "Could  you  go  to-mor- 
row?" 

"Fm  afraid  I've  got  to  go  to  Derby,"  Sir  John  put 
in.  "I'm  motoring  two  men  down  on  rather  important 
business." 

"And  on  Friday,"  Grisel  added  hastily,  "I've  an 
engagement." 


HAPPY  HOUSE  233 


"What  about  Saturday?"  he  insisted,  thoroughly 
enjoying  himself. 

"Saturday  I'm  going  to  be  with  Maud  all  day." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "There  you  are !  Always 
busy.  But  I  do  want  you  to  meet  Doll.  I'm  sure  you'll 
like  her.  She's  awfully  interested  in  you.  I  think," 
he  added  fatuously  as  his  downright  little  sister  stared 
at  him  in  amazement  approaching  open-mouthed  aston- 
ishment, "she  was  inclined  to  be — well,  it  sounds  ridicu- 
lous, but  girls  are  all  alike — to  be  a  little  jealous  of  you 
just  at  first,  Grisel.  But  of  course  that's  all  right  now." 

Grisel  tossed  her  head.  "I  should  think  so,"  she 
retorted. 

Sir  John  watched  them  with  a  puzzled  look  in  his  clear 
eyes.  Their  talk  seemed  to  him  to  be  in  surprisingly 
bad  taste.  He  had  noticed  before  that  the  subject  of 
Miss  Perkins  seemed  to  bring  out  in  them  both  a  quality 
that  he  could  not  define,  but  that  he  greatly  disliked,  and 
it  was  odd  that  Grisel  at  such  moments  displeased  him 
far  more  than  young  Wick.  He  was  a  clear-sighted  man 
who  had  seen  a  good  deal  of  the  world,  and  pf  course 
it  had  not  escaped  him  that  Wick  must  only  very  recently 
have  been  in  love  with  Grisel,  for  sometimes  he  had 
caught  in  the  young  man's  eyes  a  look  that  was  at  least 
reminiscent  of  a  stronger  feeling  than  Miss  Perkins 
might  have  approved  of.  He  felt  a  mild  curiosity  about 
Miss  Perkins,  whose  photograph  he  had  seen,  and  whose 
beauty  was  undeniable,  and  he  remembered  that  the  last 
time  Wick  had  been  at  the  house  he  had  dropped  on  the 
floor,  and  left,  a  fat  letter  in  a  delicate  grey  envelope, 
addressed  in  a  pretty  hand,  and  that  Grisel,  who  had 
found  it,  remarked,  as  he  propped  it  up  against  a  brass 


234  HAPPY  HOUSE 


candlestick:  "Chiswick  postmark.  Miss  Perkins,  of 
course." 

Barclay  reflected,  as  he  walked  home  that  night,  that 
if  it  were  not  for  Miss  Perkins  he  should  feel  extremely 
sorry  for  young  Wick.  He  liked  the  boy.  He  liked  him 
for  his  initiative  and  general  air  of  success.  Incidentally 
he  knew  through  a  friend  who  was  high  up  in  the  hier- 
archy in  Fleet  Street,  of  which  the  head  was  a  man  whom 
Oliver  called  his  Chief,  of  this  youth's  recent  and  rapid 
promotion,  and  the  confidential  position  to  which  he  had 
been  raised  over  the  heads  of  dozens  of  more  experienced 
and  older  men.  He  had  said  nothing  of  these  things  at 
"Happy  House,"  and  so  far  as  he  could  judge  Oliver 
was  regarded  there  still  as  the  unimportant,  though 
pushful  reporter,  who  had  been  sent  to  write  up  Her- 
mione's  wedding  in,  the  previous  July.  Why  the  young 
man  was  concealing  his  remarkable  advance  Barclay  had 
no  idea.  But  he  did  not  consider  it  his  business  to  tell 
what  he  knew,  and  even  Wick  himself  had  no  idea  of 
his  rival's  information.  "The  beautiful  Miss  Perkins," 
the  elder  man  thought,  as  he  walked  along  in  the  bright 
moonlight,  "will  be  My  Lady  before  she  has  been  mar- 
ried five  years,  or  I'm  very  much  mistaken." 

Meantime,  Wick,  who  now  had  a  room  in  a  little  blind 
alley  off  Fleet  Street,  was  toiling  upstairs  thoroughly 
tired  in  every  sense.  He  had  expected  Miss  Perkins  to 
effect  a  quicker  revolution  than  she  had  been  able  to  do. 
He  was  overworked,  for  the  great  man  who  had  taken 
him  in  hand  was  testing  him  at  every  point,  and  things 
were  not  being  made  easy  for  him;  that  was  not  the 
great  man's  way.  He  had,  moreover,  to  contend  with 
the  very  natural  jealousy  of  a  good  many  men  at  the 
office,  over  whose  resentful  heads  he  had  been  promoted, 


HAPPY  HOUSE  235 


and  their  protests  were  none  the  less  bitter  because  they 
were  forced  to  be  silent  ones.  Criticism  of  the  Chief's 
plans,  or  even  whims,  were  not  tolerated  in  Fleet  Street. 
Wick  found  his  work  hampered  and  retarded  in  every 
possible  way,  but  he  was  too  clever  to  speak  a  word  of 
protest  during  his  rare  but  fruitful  interviews  with  the 
"Boss,"  whose  eyes  twinkled  as  he  asked  him  each  time 
that  they  met:  "Well,  Mr.  Wick,  things  going  well, 
I  hope?"  And  Wick,  knowing  that  he  knew  (for  he 
knew  everything) ,  that  things  were  being  made  damnably 
hard  for  him,  invariably  answered  with  a  corresponding 
twinkle  and  a  pugnacious  tightening  of  the  lips:  "Top- 
hole."  But  now,  after  this  second  evening  he  had  spent 
at  "Happy  House"  since  his  return  from  Paris,  he  was 
worn  out  and  discouraged,  and  he  sat  down  on  the  edge 
of  his  bed,  the  moonlight  pouring  in  through  the  un- 
curtained window,  and  allowed  his  face  to  drop  and  line 
without  restraint. 

"I'll  go  and  see  mother  to-morrow,"  he  said  aloud, 
"and  tell  her  all  about  it.  She'll  set  me  right,  if  I'm 
settable.  The  only  decent  thing  in  the  whole  world  is 
that  Mrs.  Walbridge  is  having  the  time  of  her  life  in 
Paris,  bless  her!  What  a  stupid  letter!"  He  took  a 
letter  from  his  pocket  and  tossed  it  on  to  the  dressing- 
table.  "I  wonder  what  they  would  say  if  they  could 
read  mine !  Ah,  well." 

As  he  got  into  bed  and  blew  out  his  candle,  he  groaned 
heavily.  "Damn  Miss  Perkins,"  he  said. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

ONE  day  in  early  May  Sir  John  Barclay,  who  had  been 
lunching  at  "Happy  House,"  managed  to  slip  as  he  went 
down  the  steps  into  the  garden  and  tore  the  tendons 
away  from  one  of  his  ankles.  Grisel  telephoned  for  the 
doctor,  who  bound  it  up  and  gave  Sir  John,  who  was 
suffering  acute  pain,  a  quietening  draught  of  some  kind, 
and  went  away  leaving  Grisel  and  her  lover  in  the  dismal 
drawing-room  alone  together. 

"Did  it  hurt  much  ?"  she  asked  anxiously. 

He  nodded,  "Yes,  ridiculously.  It  is  odd  how  a  little 
injury  like  that  can  hurt  so  much  more  than  a  good 
many  serious  ones."  After  a  moment  he  added,  looking 
thoughtfully  at  her  as  she  moved  about  setting  the  room 
to  rights,  "It  is  exactly  the  same  with  mental  pain,  too, 
my  dear.  Ever  noticed  that?" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  She  turned  at  the  door,  grasp- 
ing the  basin  of  cold  water  in  which  the  bandages  had 
been  wetted. 

"I  mean  that  some  little  annoyance  or  disappoint- 
ment," he  went  on  slowly,  feeling  his  way,  "often  causes 
one  more  real  discomfort  than  a  big  blow  would." 

She  nodded  listlessly.  "I  suppose  so.  I'll  be  back  in 
a  minute,  John." 

The  strengthening  spring  sunshine  fell  through  a 
window  full  on  his  face  as  he  waited  for  her  to  come 
back,  and  there  was  something  very  thoughtful  and  a 
little  sad  in  his  strong  blue  eyes.  In  spite  of  his  white 

236 


HAPPY  HOUSE  237 


hair  he  looked  very  young  for  his  years,  and  his  face, 
finely  modelled  and  dignified,  held  a  look  of  mental 
clarity  and  freshness,  that,  combined  with  its  dominant 
expression  of  quiet  energy,  was  very  striking.  But  a 
heat  wave  had  been  hovering  over  London  for  the  last 
three  days  and  the  humid  warmth  had  tired  everyone, 
and  even  he  looked  a  little  fagged. 

As  Grisel  came  back  and  drew  together  the  hideous 
lace  curtains  that  the  doctor  had  wrenched  to  the  ends 
of  the  poles,  he  said  gently: 

"This  heat  is  exhausting  you,  my  dear.  You  look 
fagged  and  worn." 

"Why  not  say  hideous  at  once?"  she  laughed,  with 
a  little  edge  in  her  voice  and  her  slim  hands  moving 
restlessly  as  she  sat  down. 

"For  two  reasons,  the  first  is  that  you  are  not  looking 
or  never  could  look  hideous;  the  second  that  I  am  too 
old  and  too  old-fashioned  for  the  brutal  frankness  that 
seems  so  popular  nowadays."  After  a  moment  he  added 
quietly,  "I  leave  that  kind  of  downrightness  to  younger 
men — such  as  Oliver  Wick." 

She  started.  "Oliver  Wick's  manners  are  perfectly 
abominable,  and  they  seem  to  get  worse.  The  beautiful 
Miss  Perkins  does  not  appear  to  have  a  very  good  influ- 
ence on  him." 

John  Barclay's  blue  eyes  did  not  waver  from  her  face. 

"And  yet,"  he  said,  "there  is  no  doubt,  at  least  to  my 
mind,  that  the  young  man  is  very  much  in  love." 

"Oh,  he's  always  very  much  in  love,"  she  retorted,  the 
edge  in  her  voice  sharpening.  "Why,  it  is  only  nine 
months  ago  that  he  was  making  a  perfect  fool  of  himself 
about — about  a  friend  of  mine." 

Barclay  nodded.     "Yes,  I  gathered  from  something 


238  HAPPY  HOUSE 


his  mother  said  that  the  young  lady  with  the  floral  name 
has  not  the  advantage  of  being  his  first  love.  I  suppose 
the  girl — the  other  girl,"  he  took  a  cigarette  case  from 
his  pocket  and  lit  a  cigarette,  "didn't  care  about  him." 

Grisel  rose.  "Oh,  give  me  a  cigarette.  Care  about 
him?  I  should  think  she  didn't.  He  bored  the  life  out 
of  the  poor  girl  with  his  scenes — and — and,"  she  struck 
a  match,  "his  absurd  white  face." 

"Dear  me,  I  should  have  called  him  rather  brown!" 
commented  Sir  John  mildly.  "Quite  a  brown  young 
man,  I  should  have  said." 

"Oh,  yes,  but  he  used  to  turn  white,  and  all  those 
hideous  lines  in  his  face  used  to  look  suddenly  so  sharp 
and — and  so  deep." 

"Very  emotional  he  must  be.  You  knew  the  young 
lady  well,  then?" 

Grisel  shot  a  quick  glance  at  him.  "Yes — yes,  I  did. 
She  was  a  friend  of  mine.  She  has — she  is  in  South 
America  now." 

"I  see.  But  we  are  digressing.  What  I  started  to  say 
was  that  as  you  are  looking  so  tired,  and  as  it  is  so 
frightfully  hot,  and  as  my  foot  is  going  to  make  me 
pretty  useless  for  a  few  days,  suppose  we  go  for  a  little 
motor  tour?" 

Her  face  brightened,  "Oh  yes,  let's.  Couldn't  we  go 
to  the  sea,  John,  I — I  think  the  sea  up  north  somewhere 
would  brace  me — I  mean  all  of  us  up  and  make  us  feel 
better." 

"Good!  What  do  you  think  of  Yorkshire,  Whitby 
or  Robinhood  Bay?  Could  you  start  to-morrow?" 

She  flushed  with  pleasure  and  came  over  and  kissed 
his  forehead,  at  which  he  smiled  a  little  sadly  in  his 
growing  wisdom. 


HAPPY  HOUSE  239 


"We  can  get  Caroline  to  go  with  us,"  the  girl  resumed, 
sitting  down  on  the  sofa  and  smoothing  the  shawl  which 
she  had  spread  over  his  bandaged  foot.  "Poor  old  Caro- 
line, she  never  gets  any  pleasure,  and  she  will  love  it." 

"I  think  perhaps  you  had  better  ring  up  Jackson" 
(he  gave  the  number)  "and  tell  him  to  get  the  car  ready 
for  a  long  run  to-morrow;  and  if  you  and  Paul  don't 
mind,  and  will  put  me  up  to-night,  you  might  tell  Jackson 
to  send  Bob  up  with  my  clothes  and  things.  It  would 
not  hurt  this  foot  to  be  perfectly  quiet  till  we  start,  and 
Bob  can  make  the  compresses,  and  bandage  it,  as  well  as 
any  doctor." 

After  a  little  pause  she  answered,  "Yes,  that  would 
be  splendid.  You  can  have  mother's  room,  and  Bob 
can  sleep  in — in  the  dressing-room.  Shall  I  go  and  tell 
Caroline  ?" 

"No,  go  and  telephone."  He  repeated  the  number. 
"Better  get  Jackson  at  once.  By  the  way,  Miss  Perkins' 
young  man  will  be  coming  in  this  afternoon,  won't  he?" 

She  nodded,  "Yes,  oh  dear,  I  had  forgotten.  He  and 
Jenny  are  coming  to  dinner.  Paul  has  a  lot  of  new 
Russian  music " 

Barclay  sat  there  and  listened  to  her  pretty  voice  at 
the  telephone,  the  thoughtful  look  in  his  face  deepening 
though  not  saddening,  and  when  she  came  back  he  asked 
her  abruptly  if  she  thought  Paul  and  Jenny  Wick  were 
falling  in  love  with  each  other. 

She  stood  in  a  pool  of  sunlight  on  the  other  side  of  the 
mantel-piece,  twisting  the  ruby  on  her  finger.  She  had 
grown  a  little  thin  during  the  hot  weather,  and  her  slight, 
graceful  figiire  looked  almost  too  unsubstantial  in  the 
little  dove  coloured  frock. 


240  HAPPY  HOUSE 


"Paul  and  Jenny?"  she  murmured,  "I  don't  know, 
John,  I  have  been  wondering  myself." 

"Would  you — would  you  like  it  if  they  did?"  he 
asked. 

"I  don't  know.  I  like  Jenny  very  much;  she  is  too 
good  for  Paul,  really." 

He  nodded,  "Yes,  I  see  what  you  mean,  but  on  the 
other  hand  she  draws  out  the  very  best  that  there  is  in 
the  boy." 

"Paul  is  not  a  boy,  he's  thirty." 

"Thirty  is  boyhood  to  fifty-three,"  he  answered 
smiling.  "I  like  the  little  lady  with  her  edible  looking 
curls,  and  her  music  is  real  music,  based  on  the  best 
things  in  her;  music  is  no  good  at  all  when  it  is  built 
only  on  the  emotions.  Of  course,  if  they  do  marry,  the 
energetic  journalist  would  be  almost  a  member  of  the 
family — he  and  his  wife." 

Grisel  laughed  and  gave  a  comic  shiver.  "Oh  dear, 
oh  dear,  then  I  should  have  to  live  cheek  and  jowl  with 
perfection;  it  would  be  dreadful." 

"By  that  time,  dear,"  he  said  gravely,  "you  and  I 
will  not  be  living  exactly  cheek  and  jowl  with  anyone  at 
'Happy  House.'  " 

"No,  no,  of  course  not.  I  was  only  thinking" — she 
broke  off  a  little  confused,  and  he  laughed. 

"Oh,  John,"  she  said,  "you  are  such  a  dear  and  I  am 
so  fond  of  you!  You  always  make  everything  so  much 
nicer — and  so  much  easier  to  bear." 

As  she  spoke  Jessie  came  in  with  the  tea  tray,  and 
when  she  had  gone  out,  and  Grisel  was  pouring  out  the 
tea  with  sudden  gaiety  and  high  spirits,  Barclay  went 
on  as  if  they  had  not  been  interrupted : 

"That  sounds  almost  as  if  you  had  things  to  bear."- 


HAPPY  HOUSE  241 


Her  eyes  darkened.  "Well,  haven't  I  ?  After  all,  it's 
not  very  pleasant  to  have  one's  own  father  make  such 
a  ridiculous  fool  of  himself  as  my  father  is  doing.  I 
suppose  you  saw  that  article  in  the  Express  yesterday?" 

He  nodded,  "Yes/  a  very  decent  little  article;  the 
papers  have  behaved  very  well  on  the  whole,  considering 
that  he  is,  well — your  mother's  husband." 

She  looked  at  him  blankly  and  then  understood.  "Oh, 
mother's  books  you  mean!  Yes,  I  suppose  that  does 
make  it  a  little  better  known,  the  divorce  business,  I  mean 
— poor  mother !" 

"Why  poor  mother,  Grisel?" 

"The  books,  you  know,"  she  returned  vaguely,  stirring 
her  tea.  "They — they  are  so  awful,  John." 

"Are  they?" 

She  nodded.  "Yes.  So  old-fashioned  and  sentimental 
and  utterly  unreal.  I  have  not  been  able  to  get  through 
one  for  years." 

"Haven't  you  ?"  he  answered  reflectively.  "I  read  one 
the  other  day,  and,  thanks  I  suppose  to  my  own  old- 
fashionedness  and  sentimentality,  I  quite  liked  it." 

"Not  really!    What  was  it?" 

"It  was  called,  I  think,  The  Under  Secretary.'  " 

She  nodded,  "Yes,  that's  one  of  the  best  ones,  and  you 
know  it  used  to  be  very  popular.  The  later  ones  are 
awful,  and,  oh,  John,"  the  girl's  beautiful  face  was  filled 
with  real  sympathy,  "  'Lord  Effingham'  was  perfectly 
dreadful — you  know  she  tried  to  modernise  it — you 
never  read  such  hopeless  stuff  in  your  life." 

"Yes,  I  looked  at  that  one  day  somewhere.  It  struck 
me  as  being  very  pathetic,  Grisel." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "I  suppose  so,  but  then 
lots  of  other  writers  have  changed  with  the  times — 


242  HAPPY  HOUSE 


advanced  I  mean — only  mother  seems  to  have  stuck  back 
in  the  eighties  somewhere.  It  is  not  so  much  that  her 
stories  are  bad,"  she  went  on  with  an  air  of  disinterested 
criticism  that  rather  jarred  on  her  hearer,  "it  is  the  way 
she  tells  them  that  is  so — so  hopelessly  out  of  fashion. 
Why  just  look  at  Marjory  Brendon,  and  Miss  Thirsk 
and  Eugene  and  Olive  Parker,  their  books  are  just  as 
hopeless  as  mother's  from  a  literary  point  of  view,  but 
they  sell  like  anything  because  they're  modern." 

"Yes,  I  am  not  much  of  a  novel  reader,"  he  said, 
"and  when  I  do  read  a  novel  I  like  the  old  ones,  Dickens 
and  Thackeray  and  so  on,  but  I  must  say  I  do  not  see 
much  of  the  modern  ones  that  are  considered  literary. 
The  two  or  three  I  have  struck  have  been  either  deadly 
dull  in  their  wealth  of  utterly  unattractive  details,  or  so 
filthy  that  they  ought  to  be  burnt;  that  book  Paul  lent 
me,  for  instance,  'Reek,'  is  not  fit  for  any  decent  young 
woman  to  read." 

Grisel  nodded,  "Yes,  it  is  horrid.  I  began  it,  but 
mother  wouldn't  let  me  finish  it.  I  love  'Haycocks,'  don't 
you?" 

He  shook  his  head.  "No.  Of  course  it  is  beautifully 
written,  but  people  with  such  undeveloped  minds  and 
such  lack  of  knowledge  of  anything  except  turnips  and 
sheep,  don't  interest  me." 

"That  is  the  one  my  mother  likes.  Yes,  I  know  what 
you  mean  about  the  turnips,"  the  girl  added  thought- 
fully, "but  I  suppose  it  is  a  perfect  picture  of  the  lives 
of  such  people.  It  is  selling  splendidly.  I  like  'Bess 
Knighthood'  better,  only  I  don't  believe  any  family 
could  be  so  horrid  to  each  other.  Yet  it  is  told  in  an 
odd,  attractive  way.  Mother  couldn't  bear  it,  yet  it  got 
the  1,000  dollar  prize.  'Young  Bears  at  Play'  was  the 


HAPPY  HOUSE  243 


book  I  liked  best  of  all.  Oliver  gave  us  those  two,  and 
I  laughed  till  I  was  limp  over  it.  Betterton  is  a  funny 
man." 

They  talked  on  and  on  very  pleasantly,  very  cosily, 
and  as  the  draught  given  him  by  the  doctor  began  to 
take  effect  Barclay's  eyes  grew  heavy  and  his  voice  grad- 
ually softer;  finally  his  head  fell  back  against  the  pillow 
and  he  slept. 

Grisel  sat  for  some  time  looking  at  him  in  his  un- 
consciousness, and  it  seemed  to  the  girl  that  she  was 
really  seeing  for  the  first  time  this  man  who  was  to  be 
her  husband.  She  studied  his  face  closely;  its  well 
marked  eyebrows  and  strong  serene  mouth ;  a  good  face 
it  was,  she  saw,  the  best  of  faces.  And  then  she  gave  a 
little  shiver  and  rose,  for  somehow  the  intimacy  of  the 
little  scene  was  painful  to  her. 

After  a  minute  she  went  quietly  out  of  the  room  and 
down  into  the  garden.  A  little  wind  had  risen  as  the 
sun  began  to  go  down,  and  the  leaves  in  the  big  elm 
tree  were  stirring  with  small,  brisk  sounds,  as  if  they, 
too,  felt  better  for  the  coolness.  The  sky  was  unusually 
bright  in  its  hard  blueness,  and  the  two  lilac  bushes,  one 
purple  and  the  other  white,  that  had  been  gently  grilling 
all  day,  sent  out  strong  waves  of  sweetness  as  they 
swayed  in  the  freshening  air.  Grisel  Walbridge  sat 
down  on  the  steps  and  gazed  out  across  the  garden.  One 
or  two  of  the  earlier  rose  bushes  were  starred  with  half- 
open  buds,  and  a  patch  of  some  intensely  yellow  flower 
in  one  of  the  pathetic  herbaceous  borders  caught  her  eye 
— so  yellow  it  was  that  it  looked  like  a  pool  of  concen- 
trated light — an  altar  of  sunshine,  the  girl  thought  ab- 
sently. Then  her  mind  went  back  to  the  sleeping  man  in 
the  drawing-room.  "How  handsome  he  looked,"  she 


244  HAPPY  HOUSE 


said  to  herself  resolutely.  "How  kind  his  face  is,  and 
how  strong.  I  certainly  am  a  very  lucky  girl."  Yet 
somehow  she  seemed  to  know  better  than  ever  before 
what  it  was  she  was  really  doing  in  marrying  this  kind 
powerful  man.  Strong  and  placid  and  handsome  as  he 
undoubtedly  was,  the  relaxation  of  sleep  had  revealed 
one  thing  very  clearly  to  her.  His  face  was  as  smooth, 
and  more  unlined  than  that  of  many  much  younger  men 
whom  she  knew — the  flesh  looked  firm  and  sound,  and 
the  muscles  were  shapely  and  did  not  sag,  but  she  moved 
restlessly  and  leaning  her  head  against  the  hand-rail  on 
which  a  climbing  rose  had  swung  its  first  clumps  of  thick 
pink  blossom.  "He's  old,"  she  said,  "old."  In  her  se- 
curity of  perfect  solitude  she  had,  without  knowing  it, 
spoken  aloud,  and  Oliver  Wick,  who  had  come  down  the 
passage  noiselessly,  on  rubber-soled  tennis  shoes,  heard 
her,  without  her  having  heard  him,  and  for  several  min- 
utes he  stood  in  the  doorway  quite  motionless,  his  white 
flannelled  figure  sharply  outlined  against  the  inner  dark- 
ness, his  tennis  racquet  in  his  hand,  listening,  as  it 
seemed  to  him,  to  the  repeated  echo  of  her  words.  They 
seemed  to  go  on  for  a  long  time,  the  words,  "He  is  old — 
he  is  old." 

Presently  he  tiptoed  back  into  the  house  and  a  moment 
later  came  bounding  out  into  the  sunshine  very  noisily, 
so  noisily  that  she  turned  with  an  irritated  frown,  and 
on  her  seeing  who  it  was  her  frown  deepened.  "Oh,  it  is 
you,"  she  said  ungraciously,  "I  thought  you  were  coming 
to  dinner,  you  and  Jenny." 

"We  are;  Jenny  is  spending  the  night  with  Mrs. 
Gaskell-Walker,  and  I  am  at  the  Catherwoods." 

"I  see.    Will  you  come  upstairs?     Sir  John  is  asleep 


HAPPY  HOUSE  245 


in  the  drawing-room.  He  has  sprained  his  ankle  and  is 
asleep." 

Wick  expressed  proper  regret  at  the  accident,  but 
declined  to  go  in. 

"I  have  a  message  for  you,"  he  went  on,  sitting  down, 
pulling  up  the  knees  of  his  trousers,  "from  Dorothy. 
She's  awfully  sorry  to  have  missed  you  on  Tuesday." 

"Yes,  I  was  sorry  too,  but  I  thought  you  quite  under- 
stood that  I  was  going  to  tea  with  Hermione." 

He  shook  his  head.  "No,  I  muddled  it  somehow,  fool 
that  I  am.  And  about  Monday,  I  am  afraid  it  is  no  good 
after  all,  for  she  is  going  to  Birmingham  to  see  her 
grandmother,  who  is  ill.  She  had  a  wire  while  I  was 
there  last  night." 

"Oh,  I  am  sorry,"  Grisel  said  stiffly,  picking  a  cluster 
of  pink  roses  and  smelling  them.  "I  hope  the  old  lady 
will  soon  be  better." 

Mr.  Wick  had  apparently  great  faith  in  the  recupera- 
tive powers  of  his  betrothed' s  grandmother. 

"Oh,  she'll  be  all  right;  they  are  a  splendidly  healthy 
family,  the  Wandsworths.  It  is  her  mother's  mother, 
you  see." 

Grisel  looked  at  him.  "Mrs.  Perkins  herself  does  not 
seem  to  be  like  the  rest  of  them,  then,"  she  suggested 
maliciously. 

He  did  not  flinch.  "No,  poor  thing,  she's  the  exception 
that  proves  the  rule.  She's  always  bemoaning  it.  How- 
ever, they  are  trying  massage  now,  a  peculiar  kind  of 
massage  and  dumb-bells,  and  I  really  believe  it  is  going 
to  do  her  good." 

Grisel  nodded  indifferently.  "I  hope  so,  I  am  sure. 
Have  you  been  playing  tennis?" 


246 HAPPY  HOUSE 

"Yes,  Joan  Catherwood  and  I  had  four  sets.  She 
beat  me  hollow,  too.  How  pretty  these  roses  are !" 

She  nodded.  "Yes,  aren't  they;  I  love  them."  Then 
she  stroked  her  cheek  with  a  pretty  cluster  as  if  it  had 
been  a  powder  puff. 

Wick  picked  a  bunch  and  smelt  it. 

"Lovely  things,"  he  murmured  in  a  rather  maudlin 
voice.  "I  am  glad  you  like  them,  Grisel." 

"Glad?    Why?" 

His  small  eyes  looked  at  her  reproachfully. 

"My  dear  girl,"  he  said,  "don't  you  understand,  don't 
you  realise  why  they  are  my  favourite  flowers?" 

She  stared  for  a  moment  and  then  rose  impatiently. 

"Oh,  of  course,  'Dorothy  Perkins/  "  she  said  shortly. 
"Come  along  in,  it's  too  hot  here." 

As  he  followed  her,  Mr.  Wick  treated  himself  to  a 
silent  chuckle,  and  kicked  over  the  edge  of  the  veranda 
the  clump  of  roses  she  had  dropped. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

CAROLINE  BREEZE'S  diary  at  this  time  contained  several 
items  that  bear  on  the  history  of  that  year  at  "Happy 
House."  Miss  Breeze  had  indeed  been  glad  to  chaperon 
Griselda  to  Yorkshire,  and  the  journey  and  short  stay 
there  was  to  her  delightful  in  every  respect. 

"Sir  John,"  she  wrote  on  one  occasion,  "is  the  most 
chivalrous  man,  his  manners  are  perfectly  beautiful. 
One  would  think  by  his  politeness  to  me  that  it  must 
be  me  he  was  engaged  to  (which,  of  course,  in  point  of 
years  might  be  considered  more  suitable),  and  not  Grisel 
at  all.  He  behaves  as  if  she  was  not  exactly  a  daughter, 
but  a  niece  he  was  very  fond  of." 

In  another  place  she  gives  way  to  reflection  about 
Grisel  herself.  "A  very  much  spoiled  girl.  I  suppose 
her  winter  with  the  Fords  at  Torquay  has  turned  her 
head  a  little,  for  I  am  sure  she  never  used  to  be  so  change- 
able and  hard  to  please.  She  is  almost  fretful  sometimes 
and  dear  Sir  John  is  so  patient  with  her.  He  is  a  wonder- 
ful man.  He  seems  to  have  taken  a  great  fancy  to  that 
tiresome  Mr.  Wick,  and  he  has  invited  him  down  here 
for  Sunday.  (This  was  written  at  Whitby.)  I  am  sorry 
he  is  coming  and  so  is  Grisel.  She  told  me  yesterday 
that  he  bores  her  to  death.  It  rather  surprises  me,  for 
he  never  struck  me  as  exactly  a  bore." 

Then  a  little  later  she  describes  the  visit. 

"Mr.  Wick  has  been  to  Weston-super-Mare  to  see 
Miss  Perkins,  who  is  there  with  some  friends,  after 

247 


248  HAPPY  HOUSE 

nursing  her  grandmother.  Grisel  was  quite  cross  with 
him  and  although,  of  course,  one  sympathises  with  the 
young  man's  raptures  about  his  sweetheart,  I  must  admit 
he  rather  rubs  her  in — Miss  Perkins,  I  mean. 

"Sir  John  seems  very  much  interested  in  Miss  Perkins, 
and,  if  she  had  come  to  Scarborough  as  she  intended  at 
first,  he  was  going  to  take  us  over  in  the  car  to  see  her. 
I  am  quite  sorry  her  friends  decided  to  go  to  Weston- 
super-Mare  instead,  for  I  should  love  to  see  her.  They 
are  going  to  be  married  in  November,  and  really  Mr. 
Wick's  expression  when  he  talks  about  her  is  very  nearly 
ridiculous." 

A  week  later  the  diary  goes  on : 

"We  are  going  back  to-morrow,  for  Paul  has  had  a' 
wire  from  dear  Violet,  saying  they  are  leaving  Cauterets 
and  coming  to  Paris  on  their  way  home.  I  shall  be  glad 
to  see  Violet,  it  seems  years  since  she  went.  Oliver  is 
going  to  bring  them  back  from  Paris,  where  he  has  gone 
in  connection  with  the  signing  of  the  Peace.  Miss 
Perkins  has  written  a  charming  letter  to  Grisel ;  she  must 
be  a  lovely  girl. 

"Grisel  and  Sir  John  are  to  be  married  in  October/ 
as  he  has  to  go  to  the  Argentine  at  the  end  of  that  month 
and  she  wants  to  go  with  him.  I  hope  the  change  will 
do  her  good,  for  she  really  looks  ill  and  doesn't  seem  at 
all  herself." 

Mr.  Wick  about  this  time  writes  to  his  mother  from 
Paris. 

"It  was  wildly  successful,  but  I  nearly  broke  down  a 
dozen  times,  sometimes  into  a  roar  of  laughter  and 
sometimes  into  tears  of  pity.  She  does  so  hate  my 
poor  Dorothy,  mother,  she  is  as  jealous  as  a  Turk  and 


HAPPY  HOUSE  249 


so  in  love  with  me  that  I  wonder  everyone  in  the 
world  doesn't  see  it,  but  they  don't,  I  rather  had  some 
doubts  about  Sir  John  once  or  twice,  he  is  no  fool,  and 
I  have  caught  him  looking  at  me  in  a  rather  under- 
standing way.  He  displays  an  almost  suspicious  in- 
terest in  my  young  woman.  I  made  a  little  slip  and 
had  her  headed  for  Scarborough,  but  I  saw  in  his  eyes 
a  plan  for  driving  us  all  over  there  to  see  her,  so  I  had 
Billy  Barnes  wire  me  from  Birmingham  that  their 
plans  were  changed  and  I  packed  them  all  off  to 
Weston-super-Mare,  a  place  that  I  am  sure  Dorothy 
would  enjoy  if  she  really  existed. 

"There  is  only  one  thing,  mother  dear,  that  disturbs 
me  at  all,  and  that  is  Sir  John  Barclay.  He  is  a  splen- 
did old  fellow  and  I  am  afraid  he  is  going  to  be  upset 
over  our  marriage.  Hoivever,  that  can't  be  helped, 
and  after  all  a  man  of  his  age  has  no  real  right  to 
romance!  That  belongs  to  us" — and  so  on  and  so  on. 

On  the  morning  after  her  return  Grisel  came  down- 
stairs to  find  a  telegram  just  being  handed  in  at  the  door. 
It  was  addressed  to  her  and  announced  that  her  mother 
and  brother  would  arrive  that  night.  It  was  from  Wick, 
dated  Paris.  She  was  a  little  late  that  morning,  and 
Paul  had  nearly  finished  his  breakfast  when  she  opened 
the  dining-room  door. 

"They  are  coming  to-night,  Paul,"  she  said.  "This 
wire  has  just  come  from  Oliver." 

Paul  slew  a  wasp  on  the  edge  of  his  jam-baited  plate 
and  then  took  the  telegram. 

"Good!"  he  said.  "I  shall  be  glad  to  see  them,  and 
Guy  will  like  those  new  songs  of  mine;  we  must  get 
Jenny  to  come  in  to-morrow  night  and  I  will  sing  them." 


250  HAPPY  HOUSE 


She  sat  down. 

"You  like  Jenny  very  much,  don't  you?"  she  asked 
gently. 

He  looked  up,  his  clever  face,  sometimes  so  highly 
repellent,  almost  tender. 

"Jenny  is  a  dear,"  he  declared,  "she  is  the  best 
accompanist  I  have  ever  had  and  her  taste-of  music  is 
perfect." 

Grisel,  who  had  poured  out  her  coffee,  leaned  her 
chin  on  her  clasped  hands  and  looked  at  him  thought- 
fully. 

"It  is  not  only  the  music,  you  know,"  she  said,  "I 
think  it  is  her  kindness  that  I  like  so  much.  Although 
she  is  so  little  and  quick,  her  mind  always  seems  to  jump 
towards  the  nice  things  in  people  instead  of  like  us — 
we  always  jump  towards  the  faults.  Instinctively,  we 
seem  to,  don't  we,  Paul  ?" 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment,  apparently  studying  with 
deep  interest  the  remains  of  the  wasp  on  his  plate. 

"Yes,  I  suppose  we  do.  You  and  I  and  Hermione 
certainly  do.  We  get  that  from  our  beautiful  father, 
no  doubt.  Mother  and  Maud  are  different,  but  then, 
of  course  Jenny  Wick  has  had  a  great  pull  in  her  mother. 

Mrs.  Wick  is  a  fine  old "  he  paused,  and  added 

gravely,  "fellow.  That's  what  she  is  like,  a  fine  old  man, 
whereas  our  father  was  always  like  a  spoilt,  and — not 
fine — woman.  By  the  way,"  he  suddenly  felt  in  his 
pocket.  "I  had  a  letter  from  father  last  night.  He  seems 
to  be  in  trouble  of  some  kind." 

"He  would."  Grisel  answered  indifferently.  "Per- 
haps Clara  Crichell  is  sick  of  him;  I  should  think  she 
would  be  by  this  time." 

Paul  tossed  the  letter  to  her  across  the  table. 


HAPPY  HOUSE  251 


"All  she  ever  saw  in  him  was  his  looks,"  he  answered, 
"and  he  is  looking  particularly  handsome  just  now — or 
was  three  weeks  ago.  Barclay  keeps  him  pretty  busy 
and  he  is  on  the  water  wagon,  so  as  far  as  his  beauty 
goes  he  is  flourishing  like  a  rose." 

Grisel  opened  the  letter,  which  was  written  in  pencil 
on  a  half  sheet  of  paper. 

"Dear  Paul,"  it  said,  "let  me  know  when  your 
mother  is  coming  back,  as  I  must  see  her.  What  on 
earth  is  she  doing  in  Paris  so  long?  They  say  every- 
thing is  frightfully  expensive  there  now. 

"Thanks  for  sending  me  my  bathing  suit,  I  have 
had  one  or  two  good  swims  and  feel  the  better  for 
them.  1  have  been  trying  to  find  new  rooms.  This  is 
an  awful  hole  I  am  in,  but  London  is  so  full  of  those 
beastly  Colonials  and  Americans  that  I  cannot  get  in 
anywhere. 

"Is  Grisel  all  right?  I  saw  her  sitting  in  Sir  John's 
car  in  front  of  Solomons  the  other  day,  but  she  did  not 
see  me.  I  WAS  ON  A  BUS.  /  thought  she  looked  seedy. 
Do  write  and  tell  me  the  news,  and  mind  you  let  me 
know  as  soon  as  you  know  when  your  mother  and 
Guy  are  coming  back;  it  really  strikes  me  as  very  odd 
her  galloping  about  France  like  this  at  her  age. 
"Your  affectionate  father, 

"FERDINAND  WALBRIDGE." 

"Characteristic,  isn't  it?"  Paul  asked. 

She  nodded.  "Yes,  very.  Something  has  happened 
to  upset  him.  Wouldn't  it  be  awful,  Paul,"  she  added, 
unconscious  of  any  oddity  in  her  speech,  "if  Clara 
chucked  him  after  all  and  we  had  to  take  him  back!" 

"Take  him  back,  indeed !" 


252  HAPPY  HOUSE 


"Yes,  mother  would,  you  know,  if  he  came  to  grief." 

He  rose.  "Not  while  I'm  alive,  she  won't,"  he  said, 
with  the  amazing  firmness  of  the  powerless.  "Well,  I 
must  be  off.  I  will  send  up  some  flowers  if  I  can  find 
any  that  are  not  a  guinea  a  bloom."  He  hesitated  and 
turned  at  the  door.  "Will  you  ring  up  Jenny  and  say 
they  are  coming,  or  shall  I?  They  might  dine  instead 
of  to-morrow " 

"You  don't  want  Jenny  here  the  first  night  they  are 
back,  do  you?" 

"Well,  yes;  to-morrow  would  be  better,  of  course,  but 
I  have  just  remembered  that  I  have  an  engagement  to- 
morrow. Mother  likes  Jenny — she's  never  in  anybody's 
way — and  it  will  cheer  Guy  up  to  hear  some  music  after 
his  journey." 

He  went  out,  leaving  his  sister  smiling  over  the  peculiar 
and  highly  characteristic  logic  of  his  last  speech.  How 
like  Paul!  She  knew  that  Oliver  Wick  would  be  sure 
to  come  straight  to  "Happy  House"  with  his  charges, 
because  there  was  luggage  to  be  seen  to  and  carried  up, 
and  a  thousand  little  matters  to  be  settled  before  he  went 
off  to  Brondesbury,  so  it  would  be  after  all  only  natural 
for  him  to  stay  and  have  a  bit  of  dinner  before  he  went 
on  to  Brondesbury,  and  as  for  Jenny,  she  was  staying, 
as  she  so  often  did,  with  Joan  Catherwood. 

Barclay,  who  was  going  away  in  a  day  or  two,  was 
to  have  taken  her  out  to  dinner,  but  she  rang  him  up  at 
his  office  and  asked  him  to  dine  at  "Happy  House" 
instead,  he  being,  as  she  told  herself  with  decision,  one 
of  the  family.  She  gave  the  number  and  after  the  usual 
delay  a  voice  from  the  office  answered  her. 

"Hallo,  yes,  you  wish  to  speak  to  Sir  John.  Who  is 
it,  please?" 


HAPPY  HOUSE  253 


Grisel  started,  for  it  was  her  father's  voice  speaking 
to  her. 

"It  is  Miss "  she  began  nervously,  and  then  mak- 
ing a  face  at  herself,  she  went  on,  "It  is  Grisel,  father. 
Is  John  there?" 

Ferdie  Walbridge's  soft  voice  had  an  unmistakable 
thrill  in  it  as  he  spoke  again. 

"Oh,  it  is  you,  dear !  How  are  you,  Grisel,  and  when 
is  mother — I  mean  your  mother — coming  home?" 

"They  are  coming  to-night;  Paul  had  a  wire  this 
morning  from  Mr.  Wick." 

There  was  a  little  pause  and  she  could  almost  see  her 
father's  beautiful,  self-indulgent  face  sharpen  for  a  mo- 
ment with  surprise.  He  had  a  way  at  such  moments  of 
catching  his  underlip  sharply  back  with  his  white  teeth, 
and  inflating  his  nostrils.  This  she  knew  he  was  doing 
now. 

"To-night!  Dear  me,  I  hope  they  will  have  had  a 
good  crossing."  Then  he  added  pitifully,  "Dear  me, 
Grisel,  is  it  not — strange — that  I  should  not  be  there 
when  they  come?" 

Grisel  laughed.     "Well,  really,  father!"  she  said. 

"Oh,  I  know,  I  know.  Of  course,  it  is  all  my  own 
fault,"  he  was  playing  on  his  voice  now,  and  it  was  very 
pleasant  to  hear,  although  she  despised  him  for  doing 
it.  "But  when  you  are  my  age,  my  child,  you  will  know 
that  habit  is  a  great  thing  and  that  old  ties  are  not  easily 
broken." 

"I  know  that  already,"  she  snapped,  "I  thought  it  was 
you  who  didn't." 

After  a  pause,  feeling  that  he  was  about  to  become 
lyrical,  she  cut  him  short  by  asking  pleasantly: 

"How  are— the  Crichells?" 


254  HAPPY  HOUSE 


There  was  a  pause  and  then  he  nobly  replied : 

"Poor  Crichell,  for  whom  I  am  very  sorry,  is  coming 
back  to-day.  He  has  been  in  Scotland  and — er — Mrs. 
Crichell " 

"Oh,  don't  mind  me,  father,  call  her  Clara,"  she  inter- 
rupted, conscious  of  and  quite  horrified  by  her  own  bad 
taste,  and  yet  somehow  unable  to  keep  back  the  words. 

"Thank  you,  my  dear.  Clara  is  staying  with  some 
friends  in  Herefordshire." 

"Well,"  she  went  on  with  a  change  of  tone,  "will  you 
tell  John  I  am  here,  and  want  to  speak  to  him?" 

Again  she  could  almost  see  her  father  gazing  at  her 
with  noble  reproach. 

"I  will  tell  him,"  he  said  with  magnificent  rhythm  and 
throb  in  his  voice.  "I  will  tell  him,  my  child,  that  you 
are  here " 

Then,  knowing  that  he  would  add  "God  bless  you," 
she  snatched  the  receiver  from  her  ear  and  held  it  against 
her  hip  so  as  not  to  hear  the  words. 

During  the  morning  Caroline  Breeze  came  in  to  see 
how  her  recent  travelling  companion  felt  after  their 
journey.  The  summer  winds  and  sun  that  had  been  so 
kind  to  Griselda,  painting  her  delicate  face  with  mellow 
brown  and  dusky  crimson,  had  attacked  poor  Caroline's 
plain  old  countenance  with  unkind  vehemence.  Her 
lashless  eyes  looked  red  and  raw,  like  Marion's  nose  in 
Shakespeare,  and  her  thin  and  unusual  cartilaginous 
nose  was  not  only  painted  scarlet,  but  highly  varnished 
as  well  and  there  were  two  little  patches  on  her  cheeks 
that  were  peeling;  but  the  good  creature  had  no  envy 
or  even  the  mildest  resentment  at  fate  in  her  long,  nar- 
row body.  She  was  delighted  to  see  the  girl  looking 


HAPPY  HOUSE  255 


brighter,  and  happier,  and  gave  vent  to  a  curious  noise, 
nearly  like  a  crow,  over  the  news  of  the  arrival. 

"Oh  dear,"  she  kept  repeating,  rubbing  her  dry  hands 
together  with  a  rough  scrape,  "I  shall  be  glad  to  see 
Violet — I  shall  be  glad  to  see  Violet,"  and  then  she  went 
down  into  the  kitchen  to  undertake  all  the  more  tiresome 
errands  that  must  be  done  in  order  to  achieve  a  really 
brilliant  reception  for  the  travellers. 

Grisel  was  busy  all  day  in  a  pleasant,  unwearying 
manner.  She  filled  her  mother's  room  with  flowers  out 
of  the  garden  and  arranged  those  sent  by  Paul  in  the 
glasses  for  the  table. 

In  the  afternoon  Jenny  Wick  arrived,  with  a  basket 
of  green  peas  that  had  been  sent  to  her  mother  by  a 
friend  in  the  country  and  that  Mrs.  Wick  had  sent  on 
as  a  little  present  to  the  "Happy  House"  people. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  the  cook,  who  was  Grisel's  de- 
voted slave,  being  very  busy  with  some  elaborate  confec- 
tions in  the  kitchen,  the  two  girls  sat  on  the  back  steps 
where  the  Dorothy  Perkins  roses  would,  before  long,  be 
in  their  full  glory,  and  shelled  the  peas,  each  with  a  big 
blue  check  apron  over  her  frock. 

"I  guess  this  is  the  first  time  that  ruby  has  ever  shelled 
peas,"  Jenny  exclaimed  after  a  while.  "It  is  a  beauty, 
Grisel." 

Grisel  nodded,  and  her  utter  indifference  struck  the 
other  girl. 

"Funny,"  she  remarked  shrewdly,  "how  easily  one  gets 
used  to  things.  You  were  nearly  off  your  head  about 
that  ruby  at  first,  weren't  you,  and  now  you  don't  care  a 
bit  about  it." 

"Oh,  yes  I  do.    It  is  very  beautiful,  but — well,  that's 


256  HAPPY  HOUSE 


just  as  you  say.  One  does  get  used  to  things — some 
things  that  is,"  she  added  sombrely. 

Jenny,  whose  little  cream-coloured  face  was  peppered 
all  over  with  large  pale  freckles,  like  the  specks  in  eau  de 
vie  de  Dantzig,  added  a  handful  of  peas  to  the  pan,  that 
glittered  like  silver  in  the  bright  sun. 

"It's  grand  that  people  do  get  used  to  things,"  she 
reflected,  screwing  up  her  little  nose,  "almost  as  good 
as  getting  over  things.  Oh,  Grisel,  do  you  remember 
how  miserable  poor  Oily  used  to  be  about  you?" 

"Nonsense!  He  thought  he  was,  but  he  wasn't, 
really." 

"You  don't  know.  He  was  frightfully  uphappy. 
Mother  and  I  were  worried  to  death " 

Grisel  laughed.  "Poor  fellow.  But  anyhow  it  didn't 
last  very  long,  did  it  ?" 

"No,  but  it  would  have  done,"  Jenny  agreed  with  a 
shrewd  shake  of  her  curls,  "if  Dorothy  had  not  come 
along." 

"We  were  going  over  to  see  'Dorothy,'  if  she  had 
come  to  Scarborough." 

"Yes,  it  was  tiresome,  their  going  to  that  other  place. 
Oliver  has  been  having  such  fun  in  Paris  choosing  an 
engagement  ring  for  her;  he  has  got  a  beauty,  he  says, 
a  very  old  one.  An  emerald  with  diamonds  around  it." 

The  two  girls  were  intimate  enough  for  Grisel  to  be 
able  without  rudeness  to  exclaim  at  the  obvious  expen- 
siveness  of  this  choice. 

"Yes,  of  course,  it  is,"  Jenny  agreed,  "but  naturally 
he  would  want  to  give  her  something  worth  while." 

Grisel  glanced  at  her  big  ruby  and  went  on  shelling 
peas. 


THE  various  preparations  for  the  dinner  that  night 
turned  out,  however,  to  be  more  or  less  in  vain,  for  the 
travellers  were  delayed  and  did  not  reach  the  house  until 
nearly  ten  o'clock.  Dinner  had  been  arranged  for  eight, 
and  when  half  past  eight  had  struck  Grisel  rang  and  sent 
word  to  cook  that  they  would  not  wait  any  longer. 

"The  cook,"  she  explained  to  Sir  John,  "is  a  sensitive 
soul  and  very  particular  about  having  her  things  ruined 
by  waiting." 

Sir  John  laughed.  "Well,  I  am  glad,  for  my  part  I'm 
hungry.  The  sea  air  has  given  me  a  furious  appetite." 

Little  Jenny  Wick  looked  at  him  thoughtfully.  She 
did  not  think  him  looking  well  and  her  bright  eyes  re- 
vealed the  thought. 

He  smiled  down  at  her.  "I  know  what  you  are  think- 
ing, Miss  Jenny,"  he  said,  as  if  speaking  to  a  child.  "The 
heat  has  fagged  me  a  little,  but  I'm  really  very  well. 
How  is  your  mother?"  he  added,  for  he  and  old  Mrs. 
Wick  had  struck  up  a  great  friendship  and  more  than 
once  he  had  taken  her  for  long  rides  in  his  car  by  him- 
self. 

Although  she  was  the  mother  of  so  young  a  girl  as 
Jenny,  Mrs.  Wick  was  several  years  older  than  her  new 
friend,  and  treated  him  rather  in  an  elder-sisterly  way 
that  had  a  great  charm  for  him  whose  people  had  been 
dead  for  years,  and  who  at  "Happy  House"  was  so  very 
much  the  elder  of  everyone. 

257 


258  HAPPY  HOUSE 


So  now  he  was  glad  to  hear  that  Mrs.  Wick  was  well, 
and  looking  forward  to  seeing  him  before  long. 
.     "We  must  have  a  long  spin  some  day  before  I  go 
away,"  he  answered.    "I  always  enjoy  a  talk  with  your 
mother." 

Jenny  nodded.     "So  does  she  with  you,  Sir  John." 

"She's  so  glad  Oily  is  coming  back  she  doesn't  know 
what  to  do  with  herself,"  the  girl  added,  giving  a  little 
shake  in  a  bird-like  way  to  her  pretty  frilly  frock,  as 
she  rose  to  go  in  to  dinner.  "The  way  she  prefers  that 
boy  to  me  is  simply  scandalous." 

Barclay  laughed.  "You  look  ill-treated.  I  suppose," 
he  added  as  they  crossed  the  hall  en  masse,  "Miss  Perkins 
will  be  very  glad,  too,  if  she  is  back  yet,  that  is  from 
Weston-super-Mare !" 

"Yes,  she  and  her  mother  and  father  are  at  Bury  St. 
Edmunds  now,  with  some  relations  of  Mr.  Perkins. 
Mother  went  down  the  other  day  and  spent  a  couple  of 
nights,  but  they  could  not  put  me  up." 

The  dinner  was  rather  silent,  for  everyone  was  dis- 
appointed by  the  non-arrival  of  the  travellers.  Paul, 
who  was  in  good  form  and  the  happy  temper  that  Jenny 
Wick's  presence  always  produced  in  him,  did  most  of  the 
talking,  for  he  was  intensely  interested  in  a  lot  of  new 
songs,  Russian  and  Spanish,  that  he  had  just  got  and, 
with  the  naivete  that  was  in  his  case,  as  it  so  often  is, 
only  a  form  of  selfishness,  he  assumed  that  everyone  else 
was  as  deeply  interested  as  he  was. 

Grisel,  who  had  not  seen  her  lover  that  day  until  he 
arrived  rather  late  for  dinner,  told  him  in  a  low  voice  of 
her  talk  with  her  father  on  the  telephone. 

"He  really  was  upset  about  something,"  she  added  at 
the  end  of  the  story.  "Of  course,  he  was  not  so  upset 


HAPPY  HOUSE  259 


as  he  seemed,  but  there  is  something  wrong,  I'm  sure. 
I  believe  mother  would  take  him  back  if  Clara  Crichell 
did  not  marry  him  after  all." 

"What  on  earth  makes  you  think  that  she  won't 
marry  him  ?"  he  asked,  puzzled.  "No  woman  alive  would 
go  through  all  this  business  of  the  divorce  and  the  pub- 
licity unless  she  really  cared  for  the  man." 

Grisel  shrugged  her  thin  shoulders.  "Oh,  well,  I  don't 
know.  You  see,  we  know  him  so  well  that  I  suppose  we 
instinctively  fear  she  may  have  got  to  know  him  and — 
and — not  liked  what  she  has  learnt." 

It  struck  Barclay  as  a  very  sad  thing  for  a  man  that 
his  own  daughter  should  judge  him  in  this  unrancorous 
but  pitiless  way. 

"I  rather  like  your  father,  you  know,"  he  said  slowly, 
"in  some  ways.  He  is  very  much  nicer  away  from  home 
than  he  is  in  it." 

"He  must  be,"  she  answered,  with  the  charity  of  utter 
indifference.  "He  must  be  charming  somewhere,  and  he 
certainly  isn't  when  he  is  here!" 

"It  struck  me  the  last  time  I  saw  him,"  Barclay  went 
on  slowly,  "that  he  was  not — very  happy.  I  suppose  he 
misses  your  mother." 

Grisel  stirred,  and  he  hastened  to  explain. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  mean  just  that — misses  your  mother.  She 
has  taken  care  of  him  for  years,  you  know,  and  I  don't 
imagine  Mrs.  Crichell  would  be  as  patient  with  his  moods 
and  vagaries  as  your  mother  has  always  been." 

Then  suddenly  the  memory  of  her  father  in  his  less 
pleasant  phases  swent  over  Grisel,  and  her  face  was  grim 
and  tight  as  she  answered : 

"No,  and  I  hope  she  isn't!  His  hot  milk  last  thing 
at  night,  and  his  four  grades  of  underclothing,  and  his 


2<5d  HAPPY  HOUSE 


trouser-pressing  rriachines,  and  his  indigestion !  His  hot 
bottles  in  the  middle  of  the  night  every  time  he's  dined 
too  well,  and  poor  mother  poking  around  in  the  kitchen 
heating  kettles  on  the  gas-ring!  Oh,  no,  Mrs.  Crichell 
won't  much  like  that  side  of  her  beau  sabreur,  as  she 
calls  him." 

After  dinner,  as  they  walked  in  the  garden,  Sir  John 
told  her  that  he  had  met  Walter  Crichell  that  morning. 

"The  poor  wretch  looks  miserably  unhappy,"  he  said. 
"Those  white  hands  of  his  look — look  shrunken  in  their 
skin — rather  as  if  he  had  kid  gloves  on." 

Grisel  shuddered.  "Ugh!  his  hands  are  loathsome! 
After  all,"  she  added  a  moment  later,  staring  at  a  rose- 
bush, "there  is  no  reason  why  the  poor  wretch  should 
be  hurt  like  this  just  because  he  has  horrid  hands !  Oh ! 
John,"  she  cried,  catching  his  arm  almost  as  if  she  were 
frightened,  "what  an  awful  lot  of  misery  there  is  in  the 
world." 

He  covered  her  small  hand  with  his  big,  strong,  brown 
one. 

"Yes,  dear,  there  is.  A  great  deal  of  it  is  inevitable 
and  has  to  be  borne,  but  the  other  kind — the  kind  that 
can  be  avoided — ought  always,  I  think,  to  be  avoided. 
It  is  right  that  it  should  be  avoided." 

She  loosed  his  arm  and  looked  up  at  him  as  they 
walked  on. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean  that  when  people  find  they  have  made  mis- 
takes— and  everyone  does  find  that  once  in  a  while — 
I  think  that  no  consideration  of  pride  or  advantage 
ought  to  stand  in  the  way  of  open  confession  and  restora- 
tion." 

There  was  a  little  pause. 


HAPPY  HOUSE  261 


"You  are  thinking  about  mother  and  father.  You 
mean  that  if  Mrs.  Crichell  finds  she  has  been  mistaken, 
she  ought  to  say  so  and  go  back  to  her  husband,  even 
though  people  laughed  at  her  for  it." 

"No,  I  was  not  thinking  of  the  Crichells  or  your 
father." 

The  great  heat  had  gathered  masses  of  thick,  quilted- 
looking  clouds  over  London,  and  nervous  little  spurts 
of  wind  startled  the  trees  every  now  and  then  and  stirred 
the  heavy-headed  roses.  The  air  smelt  of  dust  and  dry- 
ing vegetation. 

Grisel  looked  up.  "There's  going  to  be  a  storm,"  she 
said.  "Shall  we  go  in?" 

"If  you  like,  dear;  but  the  storm  won't  break  yet 
awhile.  Though,"  he  stood  looking  up  at  the  sky  for  a 
moment,  his  thick  white  hair  moving,  she  thought,  just 
as  the  leaves  on  the  trees  moved  in  the  spasmodic  wind, 
"there  is  going  to  be  one." 

They  went  slowly  into  the  drawing-room,  although 
the  others  were  upstairs,  and  Paul's  beautiful  voice  was 
already  heard  trying  one  of  the  new  songs. 

"Let's  stay  here,"  he  suggested.  "It's  cooler  on  this 
side  of  the  house,  and  I  don't  feel  inclined  for  music 
to-night." 

"Neither  do  I,"  she  said,  "but  Paul  does,  so  we  shall 
have  it!  Yes,  it  is  cool  in  here.  Give  me  a  cigarette, 
John,  will  you?" 

He  did  so,  and  they  sat  in  almost  unbroken  silence, 
smoking.  Presently  the  door-bell  rang,  and  voices  were 
heard  outside. 

"That's  Moreton  and  Maud,"  Griselda  explained, 
without  rising.  "They  have  motored  up  from  Burnham 
Beeches  to  see  Guy." 


262  HAPPY  HOUSE 


"You  ought  to  go  up  to  them,  oughtn't  you?"  he 
asked  gently. 

"No;  they  will  be  all  right,  and  they'll  love  hearing 
the  songs,  and  Paul  will  tell  them  we  are  in  the  garden." 
Again  they  were  silent. 

The  air  was  extremely  oppressive  in  spite  of  the  rising 
wind,  and  Grisel's  head  ached  faintly.  Every  now  and 
then  one  of  the  long  lace  curtains  would  blow  into  the 
room  and  writhe  about  as  if  reaching  for  something,  to 
sink  back  listlessly  into  its  place. 

"How  heavy  the  scent  of  those  lilacs  is,"  the  girl  said 
after  a  while,  glancing  at  a  big  bowl  of  them  on  the 
table,  and  Barclay  raised  his  head  suddenly,  with  a  new 
look  in  his  face. 

"Yes;  that  brings  back  to  me  a  story  that  I've  been 
thinking  of  telling  you.  I  think  I  will  tell  you  now, 
Grisel,"  he  said.  "Something  that  happened  in  my 
youth.  My  father  was  a  parson,  and  there  were  six  of 
us  children.  My  mother  died  when  I  was  about  eight, 
and  an  old  aunt  of  ours,  my  father's  sister,  came  and 
lived  with  us  and  brought  us  up.  She  was  a  good 
woman,  absolutely  without  imagination,  and  she  looked 
rather  like  Miss  Breeze.  When  I  think  of  my  Aunt 
Susan  I  always  see  her  behind  a  kind  of  barricade  of 
baskets  full  of  mending  of  all  kinds.  She  spent  the 
greater  part  of  her  life  with  a  boy's  stocking  drawn  up 
over  her  left  arm  and  a  needle  full  of  wool  in  her  right 
hand.  She  did  her  best  by  us,  poor  woman,  but  she 
bored  us,  every  one,  and  I  suppose  she  could  not  have 
been  very  wise  about  our  health,  because  before  I  left 
home  four  of  us  had  died,  two — the  twins,  who  had 
never  been  very  strong — of  pneumonia,  and  the  other 
.two  of  diphtheria.  It  is  not  very  interesting,  but  it  ex- 


HAPPY  HOUSE  263 


plains  just  a  little  the  way  I  felt  that  day "  He 

broke  off. 

"I  was  just  twenty-one,"  he  went  on,  smiling  at  her, 
"an  awkward  colt  of  a  boy,  too  big  for  my  clothes,  and 
too  hungry  for  my  father's  income,  and  one  day  my 
sister  Celia,  the  only  other  one  of  us  who  lived  to  grow 
up " 

"I  know — the  one  who  died  in  New  Zealand." 

"Yes.  Well,  one  day  Celia  and  I  went  up  to  Coops 
Hall,  our  nearest  neighbours,  some  people  named  Fen- 
wick,  to  plan  tennis.  It  was  a  day  like  yesterday,  very 
sunny  and  hot,  and  it  must  have  been  about  this  time 
of  the  year,  because  the  white  lilacs — a  great  clump  of 
them  of  which  Mrs.  Fenwick  was  verv  proud — were  in 
full  bloom,  and  the  air  thick  with  their  scent." 

He  glanced  at  the  bowl  on  the  table  as  he  spoke. 

"I  remember  perfectly  well  how  I  felt  as  we  came  up 
the  incline  of  the  lawn  to  the  tulip  trees  where  two  or 
three  hammocks  were  slung  and  where  the  Fenwick  girls 
and  their  brother  were  sitting.  That  is  one  of  the  mo- 
ments in  my  life  of  which  I  can  still  always  recapture  the 
very  feel"  After  a  moment  he  went  on.  "She  was 
standing,  leaning  on  a  croquet  mallet,  with  her  sideface 
towards  me.  Her  left  profile,  which  was  always  better 

than  the  right — and  still  is  for  that  matter "  He1 

smiled,  his  face  singularly  sweetening  at  the  thought. 

"But,  John!"  the  girl  cried  in  amazement,  "you  ro- 
mantic old  thing,  you  are  telling  me  a  love  story !" 

He  looked  at  her  gravely.  "I  am,  my  dear.  The  only 
love  story  I  ever  had  until  I  met  you." 

She  shrank  back  in  her  big  chair  as  if  drawing  away 
from  a  too  close  physical  touch,  and  he  went  on. 

"She  wore  a  blue  and  white  striped  dress,  as  it  used 


264  HAPPY  HOUSE 


to  be  called  in  those  days,  bunched  up  at  the  back  over 
a  bustle,  and,  oh  dear  me,  how  her  hair  shone  in  the 
sun!  It  was  rather  a  saintly  face,"  he  went  on  after  a 
moment,  "but  the  hair  was  the  hair  of  a  siren,  full  of 
waves  and  tendrils,  and  bewitching  high  lights  and 
shades.  Well,  I  was  introduced  to  her,  and  we  played 
croquet  together,  and  then  we  had  tea.  And  that  was 
all.  Did  you  ever  read  a  little  poem,  'There  is  a  lady 
sweet  and  kind'?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "No,  John.  You  know  I  don't 
like  poetry  much." 

"Well,  listen.  I  don't  remember  the  exact  words,  but 
it's  like  this : 

"  'There  is  a  lady  sweet  and  kind, 
Was  never  face  so  pleased  my  mind; 
I  did  but  seeing  her  pass  by, 
And  yet  I  loved  her  until  I  die. 

'Cupid  has  wounded  and  doth  range 
Her  country  and  she  my  love  doth  change ; 
But  change  the  earth  and  change  the  sky, 
But  still  will  I  love  her  till  I  die. 

"Well,  my  dear,  I  was  exactly  like  that  romantic  youth. 
For  over  a  quarter  of  a  century  my  mind  remained 
perfectly  true  to  the  memory  of  that  sad-faced  girl  in 
the  garden.  She  came  once  to  my  father's  rectory,  and 
we  played  tennis,  and  after  that  I  didn't  see  her  again 
for  over  thirty  years." 

Grisel  watched  him  with  wide,  fascinated  eyes,  as  if 
he  was  someone  she  had  never  seen  before.  She  was 
trying  to  do  what  is  so  hard  for  a  young  person  to  do — 
look  back  into  an  old  person's  youth  and  really  see  that 
youth  face  to  face. 

"Why  was  she  unhappy?"  she  asked  as  he  paused  and 
very  slowly  lit  another  cigarette. 


HAPPY  HOUSE  265 


"Oh,  that,  too,  was  a  romance.  Hers,  just  as  she  was 
mine.  She  had  been  sent  to  the  Fenwicks  to  try  to 
distract  her  mind  and  draw  her  away  from  a  young 
man  to  whom  she  was  attached." 

"Did  you  ever  tell  her  that  you  had  fallen  in  love  with 
her?" 

"Good  heavens,  no!     I  was  not  a  lover.     I  was  a 

worshipper,  and  she  was  so  beautiful,  so  perfect ' 

He  broke  off.     "Ah,  my  dear,  that's  the  kind  of  love 
that's  worth  having." 

She  watched  him,  her  face  changing  to  one  of  less 
detached  curiosity. 

"Dear  me,  John,"  she  said,  "you  alarm  me,  for  this 
kind  of  love  is  certainly  not  what  you  give  me." 

She  laughed,  but  he  looked  at  her  very  seriously. 

"No,"  he  said,  "it  is  not.  I  give  you  the  best  I  have 
got,  but  it  is  not  much  for  a  young  creature  like  you." 

She  flushed,  and  her  face  contracted  for  a  second. 

"Oh,  I  hope  you  don't  think  I  am  ungrateful,"  she 
stammered. 

He  shook  his  head.  "No,  it  is  only  that  I'm  wonder- 
ing if  it  was  not  wrong  of  me  to  persuade  you  to  accept 
— so  little." 

"But,  John,  I " 

"Wait  a  moment,  Grisel.  I  have  been  thinking  about 
this  for  a  long  time  now,  and  this  seems  the  right  mo- 
ment to  say  it.  Hallo !  it's  raining !"  he  broke  off,  looking 
out  of  the  window. 

"It  has  been  raining  for  a  long  time,"  she  said  dully. 
"Go  on,  please." 

The  air,  quickened  by  the  quiet  rush  of  water,  came 
in  refreshingly  at  the  window,  and  the  music  upstairs 
had  ceased,  so  that  the  silence  was  very  perfect. 


266  HAPPY  HOUSE 


"I  think,"  Barclay  went  on,  looking  at  her  with  a 
reassuring  smile,  "that  it  is  my  duty  to  advise  you  to 
think  it  all  over  again — everything." 

"Oh,  John,"  she  faltered,  "this  is  my  fault.  It  is 
because  I  have  been  dull  and  moody.  You  think  I'm 
ungrateful.  You  must  think  I  am,  but,  indeed,  I  am 
not." 

"Any  marriage  that  is  based  on  gratitude,"  he  said 
sharply,  leaning  forward  in  the  gloom,  "is  bound  to  go 
smash.  I  mean  exactly  what  I  say,  Grisel:  you  must 
think  it  all  over  again.  I  have  told  you  the  truth;  you 
know  just  how  I  feel,  and,  of  course,  you  have  known 
all  along  that  you  do  not  love  me  as" — -  he  rose  and 
came  slowly  towards  her — "as,  say,  Miss  Perkins  pre- 
sumably loves  Wick." 

She  stood  facing  him  with  quickened  breath.  "Miss 
Perkins  has  nothing  to  do  with  it,  John,"  she  said  with 
a  quiet  dignity  that  touched  him.  "If  you  wish  to  break 
our  engagement,  I — I  am  quite  willing  to  let  you  do  so, 
of  course,  but  /  don't  wish  to  break  it."  She  turned  and 
went  out  of  the  room. 

He  went  to  the  window  and  stood  looking  out  into 
the  delightful  rain;  he  could  smell  fresh  leaves  and  re- 
vived flowers;  the  very  smell  of  wet  dust  was  pleasant. 

For  a  long  time  he  stood  there,  going  over  in  his  mind 
the  scene  that  had  just  passed.  It  struck  him  as  very 
odd  that  Grisel  had  not  guessed  that  the  girl  in  his  story 
had  been  her  mother.  He  could  not,  in  his  well-balanced 
middle  age,  realise  the  savage  strength  of  her  youthful 
egotism.  It  seemed  strange  to  him,  but  it  was  very  plain, 
that  the  only  interest  in  his  story  lay,  to  her,  in  the  fact 
that  it  explained  why  he  had  not  much  left  to  give  her — 
her.  The  story  itself  seemed  to  her,  he  could  see,  as 


HAPPY  HOUSE  267 


remote  as  if  its  actors  had  been  contemporaries  of  Noah. 
It  was  too  far  off  for  her  to  feel  it.  Quite  different, 
however,  it  had  been  when  he  mentioned  Miss  Perkins' 
name.  Half  anxiously  he  had  hoped  by  mentioning  Miss 
Perkins  to  precipitate  the  crisis  that  he  felt  to  be  on  its 
way,  but  nothing  happened.  His  gun  had  missed  fire. 

"I  shall  have  to  have  a  talk  with  Mrs.  Walbridge," 
he  said  to  himself  ".t  last  as  the  clock  struck  half-past 
nine.  "Something  has  got  to  be  done,  poor  little 
thing "  Then  he  went  upstairs  and  joined  the  others. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

WHEN  the  taxi  drew  up  at  the  gate,  Maud  and  Paul  and 
Grisel  ran  downstairs. 

Moreton  Twiss,  who  was  reading  and  smoking  in  the 
corner,  did  not  come  to  the  window,  and  Barclay  and 
Jenny  leaned  out  in  the  wet,  watching  the  little  scene 
of  greeting  in  the  glistening  band  of  light  from  the  open 
door. 

Finally  the  house  door  was  banged,  and  the  taxi  drove 
away. 

"Shall  we  go  down?"  Jenny  asked,  dancing  with  ex- 
citement. "I  do  so  want  to  see  Guy !" 

"I  think  we  had  better  wait  where  we  are.  If  they 
want  us  they  will  come  up  here  or  send  for  us.  Look 
here,  Miss  Wick,"  Barclay  went  on,  struck  by  a  sudden 
idea,  "I  am  worried  about  Grisel.  What  do  you  think 
of  her?" 

Jenny,  whose  face  was  contradictory  in  that  it  was 
at  once  the  face  of  an  elf,  and  of  a  very  practical  modern 
girl,  sat  down  on  the  back  of  a  chesterfield  and  looked 
at  him  thoughtfully. 

"I  have  been  wondering,"  she  said  after  a  pause,  "if 
you  noticed  it  too." 

"Oh,  then  you  have  seen?" 

Seen?  Why,  of  course.  I  have  never  seen  anyone 
change  so  in  my  life.  Everybody  says  she  looks  so  much 
better  for  being  at  the  sea,  but  she  does  not.  That's 
nothing  but  sunburn,  and  she  is  as  thin  as  a  herring  and 

268 


HAPPY  HOUSE  269 


as  nervous" — she  broke  off,  looking  round  for  a  simile — 
"as  a  wild  cat.  I  was  speaking  to  my  brother  about  her 
only  the  other  day." 

"Ah !"  Something  in  Sir  John's  voice  struck  her,  and 
again  she  looked  at  him  penetratingly.  "What  did  your 
brother  say?"  he  went  on,  meeting  her  gaze.  "He 
strikes  me  as  a  pretty  shrewd  fellow." 

"He  is — or  ought  to  be — but  since  he  became  engaged 
he  seems  unable  to  think  of  anyone  but  his  blessed  Dor- 
othy. He  said  he  thought  Grisel  looked  very  well  and 
seemed  extremely  happy." 

Sir  John  was  silent  for  a  moment,  but  the  peculiarity 
of  his  expression  did  not  escape  his  observant  companion. 

"He  was  very  keen  on  Grisel  himself  at  one  time,  you 
know,  Oliver  was,"  she  added,  "but  they  always  fight 
nowadays.  Of  course,  she  is  not  perfect  like  his  Dor- 
othy, but  I  don't  mind  telling  you,  Sir  John,  that  if  it 
wasn't  for  you  I  should  be  very  sorry  that  he  ever  met 
Dopothy."  " 

"Do  you  think  Grisel  could  ever  have — come  to  care 
for  your  brother?" 

Barclay's  voice  was  very  quiet  and  kind,  but  the  girl 
hesitated  for  a  moment,  eyeing  him  in  a  perplexed  way 
before  she  answered. 

"Oh,  I  am  sure  I  don't  know!  Rather  stupid  to  talk 
about  it  to  you,  anyway.  I  suppose " 

"I  don't  see  that  at  all,  and  I  should  really  rather  like 
to  know  your  opinion,"  he  added  slowly,  "of  my  defeated 
rival."  After  a  pause:  "I  mean,  what  do  you  think 
would  have  happened  if  he  had  been  the  successful  one?" 

"Well,  then,"  Jenny  said,  weighing  her  words  and 
obviously  striving  for  the  exact  expression  of  her 
thoughts,  "I  do  not  think  they  would  have  got  on  very 


270  HAPPY  HOUSE 


well  if — if  you  had  not  come  along.  You  see,"  she 
explained  as  she  smiled  in  an  encouraging  way,  "Oliver 
is  as  clever  as  the  Old  Nick.  He  is  so  silly  sometimes, 
and  talks  in  such  an  idiotic  way  that  lots  of  people  think 
he  must  be  a  fool,  but  he  isn't;  and  although  he  was  so 
in  love  with  Grisel — and  you  can  hardly  believe  it  now, 
from  the  way  he  drivels  about  Dorothy  Perkins — but  he 
was  in  love  with  Grisel — there  was  never  any  of  the 
'love  is  blind'  business  about  him.  He  always  saw  right 
through  her." 

"Poor  little  thing!"  Barclay  murmured  with  a  laugh. 
"Anyway,  she  refused  him!" 

"Oh,  yes;  but  he  used  to  go  for  her  about  things  and 
tease  the  life  out  of  her.  That,  of  course,  was  good  for 
Grisel.  She  gets  too  much  flattery.  I  do  hope,"  the 
intelligent  little  creature  went  on,  so  earnestly  that  there 
seemed  nothing  ridiculous  in  her  assumption  of  equality 
of  knowledge  and  years  with  her  companion,  "that  you 
are  not  going  to  spoil  her,  Sir  John !" 

"I  hope  not.  So  you  think  that  an  occasional  wigging 
does  her  good." 

"Rather!  It  does  us  all  good.  I  know  /  get  on  a 
high  horse  every  now  and  then,  and  start  galloping  off, 
and  then  Master  Oliver  cracks  his  whip,  and  down  we 
come  in  the  dust,  and  I  know  it  is  good  for  me." 

He  liked  her,  liked  her  thoroughly,  with  her  mixture 
of  music  and  sharpness;  above  all,  he  liked  her  for  not 
apologising  for  her  perfectly  fair  criticism  of  her  friend. 
He  was  a  man  who  inclined  to  be  very  impatient  of 
unnecessary  apologies. 

"Well,  well,"  he  said,  as,  in  answer  to  a  message 
brought  up  by  Jessie,  they  went  downstairs.  "Miss 
Perkins  seems  to  have  played  a  rather  important  part  in 


HAPPY  HOUSE  271 


all  our  lives,  doesn't  she?  I  am  afraid  my  poor  Grisel 
could  never  compete  with  her  in  the  matter  of  womanly 
perfection." 

"Oh,  I  don't  suppose  Dorothy  is  as  bad — as  good — 
as  Oliver  thinks,"  the  girl  laughed.  "No  girl  ever  was, 
but  still " 

The  first  thing  that  met  Sir  John's  eyes  as  he  opened 
the  dining-room  door  was  Oliver  Wick's  face.  Oliver 
sat  opposite  him,  and  as  Jenny  went  into  the  room 
Barclay  stood  for  a  moment  watching  the  scene  of  greet- 
ing and  exclamations  and  introductions,  and  it  struck 
him  that  there  was  something  very  odd  in  Wick's  face 
as  he,  too,  looked  on  after  kissing  his  sister. 

The  young  man  looked  at  once  triumphant  and  touched, 
and  in  an  odd  way,  despite  the  triumph,  hurt. 

Barclay's  impression  that  something  very  strange  was 
going  on  in  the  room  strengthened  as  he  advanced  to  the 
table.  Then  Mrs.  Walbridge,  whose  back  had  been 
towards  him,  and  over  whose  chair  Jenny  was  leaning, 
turned  and  held  out  her  hand.  Barclay  stared  almost 
open-mouthed,  then  he  fell  back  a  step,  glanced  sharply 
at  Wick,  whose  complexity  of  expression  had  simplified, 
he  saw,  to  one  of  sheer  pride  of  achievement  and  delight. 

It  was,  indeed,  Mrs.  Walbridge  whose  hand  her  old 
adorer  now  held  in  his,  but  it  was  an  entirely  new  Mrs. 
Walbridge.  A  beautifully  dressed,  much  younger,  shyly 
self-possessed  woman,  whose  faint  blush  of  pleasure  in 
his  plainly-shown  surprise  gave  her  an  oddly  reminiscent 
look  of  the  girl  in  the  garden  of  so  many  years  ago. 

Her  hair,  which  since  he  had  found  her  again  had 
been  carelessly  smoothed  back,  and  dulled  from  lack  of 
care,  now  shone  almost  with  the  old  lustre,  and  its  be- 
witching curliness  was  made  the  highest  use  of.  Her 


272  HAPPY  HOUSE 


metamorphosis  was  so  complete  and  so  striking  that  it 
would  have  been  foolish  to  try  to  ignore  it,  and  he  found 
himself  saying  simply  as  he  released  her  hand : 

"I  never  should  have  known  you,  Mrs.  Walbridge." 
She  laughed  and  bade  him  sit  down. 

"I  know,"  she  said,  "Paul  hardly  did  know  me  as  I 
got  out  of  the  cab,  did  you,  Paul?" 

"No,"  the  young  man  answered,  "I  was  never  so 
surprised  in  my  life." 

"It  is  all  Oliver's  doing,"  she  went  on,  as  she  began 
her  interrupted  dinner.  "He  would  have  it.  Wait  till 
you  see  some  of  the  things  he  has  bought  me,  Maud! 
He  went  to  all  the  dressmakers  with  me,  and  was  so  fussy 
about  my  hats  that  I  nearly  threw  them  in  his  face."  But 
her  smile  at  the  young  man  across  the  table  was  a  very 
loving  one. 

He  beamed  back  at  her  in  a  way  that  struck  the  new- 
comer as  being  enviable.  He  himself  felt  suddenly  very 
old,  very  isolated.  Violet  Walbridge's  husband  had  been 
a  dismal  failure,  and  her  children  were  selfish,  and  spoilt, 
and  not  one  of  them,  he  had  always  thought,  really  ap- 
preciated her,  but  here  was  this  queer  journalistic  young 
man  whose  odd  gifts  were  certainly  more  than  intelli- 
gence and  might  easily  be  the  youthful  growth  of  genius, 
plainly  loving  and  understanding  her  like  the  most  per- 
fect of  sons.  Barclay  envied  her. 

"I  did,"  Oliver  was  saying.  "With  my  own  hand  I 
did  it.  With  my  little  bow  and  arrow  I  killed  cock 
sparrow  of  British  clothes  and  unselfish  indifference! 
Wait  till  you  see  the  evening  dress  we  got.  My  word! 
And  there's  a  tea-gown.  We  had  a  most  unseemly  scene 
over  that  tea-gown;  nearly  came  to  blows,  didn't  we, 
petite  mere?" 


HAPPY  HOUSE  273 


She  laughed.  "I  shall  never  dare  wear  it;  it's  the 
most  unrespectable  looking  garment.  I  only  got  it  to 
make  him  stop  talking."  She  went  on,  turning  to 
Griselda,  "He  talked  the  two  saleswomen  nearly  into 
collapse,  and  the  premier  vendeuse  went  and  got  Ma- 
dame Carlier  herself.  His  words  flowed,  and  flowed,  like 
a  dreadful,  devastating  river,  and  they  were  all  nearly 
drowned." 

"So  you  got  the  tea-gown  as  a  plank  to  save  them," 
Oliver  grinned.  "Some  day  when  we  are  married, 
Grisel" — Grisel,  started  violently,  and  after  a  momen- 
tary pause,  during  which  he  bit  his  lip,  he  went  on  in 
an  injured  voice,  "What  is  the  matter?  Aren't  you  going 
to  be  married?  I  certainly  am!  I  was  going  to  say, 
when  we  are  all  married  I  can  tell  my  wife  about  our 
dreadful  scenes  in  the  lingerie  shop  and  chez  la  corse- 
tiere.  Oh,  la,  la!" 

"Oh,  la,  la." 

Mrs.  Walbridge  blushed  scarlet,  and  whispered  to 
Maud,  who  sat  .next  her,  that  he  had  really  been  dread- 
ful over  her  night  gowns.  "The  girl  who  served  us 
laughed  till  she  was  black.  I  really  don't  know  what  she 
thought  we  were!" 

Guy,  who  was  more  like  his  mother  than  any  of  the 
others,  and  who  looked,  despite  his  serious  illness,  partic- 
ularly fit  and  well,  now  took  up  the  tale  and  went  on 
with  it. 

"He  is  an  awful  fellow,  really,  is  Wick,  and  I  can 
only  hope  his  real  mother  has  more  fight  in  her  than 
mine." 

"She's  mine,  too,  yours  is,"  Wick  interrupted,  his 
voice  steady,  but  his  eyes  bright.  "She  has  adopted  me, 
and  I  have  adopted  her." 


274  HAPPY  HOUSE 


"How  will  Miss  Perkins  like  this  new  relationship  and 
all  that  it  entails?"  Barclay  asked,  looking  away  from 
Mrs.  Walbridge  for  the  first  time  for  several  minutes. 

"Oh,  she'll  be  delighted!  She's  longing  to  meet  Mrs. 
Walbridge  and  all  of  them,  particularly,  of  course,"  he 
added  politely,  "Grisel." 

For  some  reason  everyone  at  the  table  turned  and 
looked  at  Grisel.  She  was  leaning  back  in  her  chair,  her 
face  clearly  alarmingly  white,  and  her  nose  looked 
pointed. 

Paul,  who  sat  next  to  her,  took  hold  of  her  hand. 

"What  is  the  matter,"  he  asked  roughly. 

She  moved  a  little  and  forced  herself  to  speak,  "It's 
my  head.  I  have  felt  rather  bad  all  day,  haven't  I?" 
she  added,  turning  to  Barclay  with  pathetic  eagerness. 

He  rose.  "Yes,  dear,  your  head  was  bad  before  din- 
ner, even.  Come,  I'll  take  you  out  into  the  air." 

Paul  opened  the  door  and  Grisel  and  Barclay  went 
out,  and  the  others  heard  the  veranda  door  open  and 
close  behind  them. 

"Grisel  looks  like  the  very  deuce,"  nodded  Guy  gruff- 
ly. "Can't  think  what  you  have  all  been  dreaming  of 
to  let  her  get  into  such  a  state." 

"It  really  has  been  frightfully  hot,"  Jenny  Wick  said 
explanatorily.  "I've  felt  like  a  rag  all  day,  and  Grisel 
isn't  nearly  so  strong  as  I  am." 

Mrs.  Walbridge  looked  anxiously  at  her  eldest  daugh- 
ter. 

"How  do  you  think  she  is,  Maud?" 

Maud  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "She  certainly  looks 
bad  enough  to-night,  but,  of  course,  I  have  seen  very 
little  of  her — our  being  down  at  Burnham  Beeches — 
what  do  you  think,  Moreton?" 


HAPPY  HOUSE  275 


The  young  doctor  hesitated  for  a  moment  "It  is  her 
nerves,"  he  said.  "She  strikes  me  as  being  a  bit  upset 
about  something.  Most  probably,  poor  kid,  it's  this  af- 
fair about — about  her  father." 

Young  Wick  had  stopped  eating,  and  was  rolling  a  bit 
of  bread  absently  between  his  thumb  and  first  finger. 
His  fair  eyebrows  were  twisted  into  an  odd  frown  and 
his  mouth  was  set. 

Mrs.  Walbridge  rose.  "I'm  going  to  see  if  she  is  all 
right,"  she  declared  anxiously,  but  Paul  put  out  a  de- 
taining hand. 

"Don't,  mother,  John  will  look  after  her.  He'll  see 
that  she  is  all  right.  Don't  worry,  she  is  a  bit  run  down, 
but  that  is  nothing.  I  think  I  know  something  that  will 
put  everything  straight,"  he  added.  "I  should  have 
waited  for  him  to  tell  you  himself,  but  as  you  are  wor- 
ried he  won't  mind  my  telling  you  now.  You  know  how 
anxious  he  has  been  to  get  back  to  Argentina?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  he  had  a  letter  to-night  from  some  big  official, 
saying  that  they  would  let  him  go  the  moment  peace  is 
signed.  Peace  will  certainly  be  signed  this  week,  and 
he  will  get  off  I  should  think  next  week,  and  I  believe 
-—mind  you,  I  don't  know,  only  think — that  he  is  going 
to  ask  Grisel  to  marry  him  at  once  and  go  out  with  him." 

"That's  a  very  good  plan,"  declared  Moreton  Twiss 
with  all  the  authority  of  the  doctor,  "the  sea  journey 
would  put  her  to  rights,  better  than  anything  in  the 
world.  Splendid." 

"Did  he  tell  you  he  was  going  to  suggest  this?"  Mrs. 
Walbridge  asked  in  a  faltering  voice.  "Oh,  Paul,  I  don't 
want  her  to  go  so  soon." 

"Nonsense,  mother,  you  must  not  be  selfish,"  returned 


276  HAPPY  HOUSE 


Paul,  briskly.  "I  was  very  late  getting  back  to-night, 
and  he  picked  me  up  at  the  corner  in  his  car  and  showed 
me  the  letter.  He  didn't  exactly  suggest  it,  in  fact,  I 
rather  think  it  was  I  who  asked  him  if  he  would  not  be 
wanting  her  to  marry  him  at  once  under  the  circum- 
stances, but  I'd  like  to  bet  £5  on  his  doing  it  at  this 
moment  out  there  in  the  rain. 

As  he  spoke  they  heard  the  outside  door  closing  again, 
and  after  a  moment  Barclay  came  into  the  dining-room 
alone. 

"Grisel  has  gone  upstairs,"  he  said.  "Her  head  is 
pretty  bad.  She  may  come  down  later." 

They  all  went  up  to  the  girls'  room,  and  shortly  after 
the  Twiss'  and  the  Wicks  who  were  spending  the  night 
with  the  Catherwoods,  left,  and  the  rain  having  ceased, 
Paul  walked  back  with  them. 

When  they  had  gone  Mrs.  Walbridge,  Sir  John  and 
Guy  sat  on  for  a  while  in  the  pleasant,  flower-filled  room, 
and  presently  Mrs.  Walbridge  asked  Guy  to  leave  her 
alone  with  Sir  John,  and  the  young  man  said  "Good- 
night," and  went  out. 

Mrs.  Walbridge  sat  very  slim  and  graceful-looking  in 
her  new  clothes,  and,  what  was  still  more  remarkable, 
her  new  bearing,  on  the  black  chesterfield,  and  Barclay 
walked  up  and  down  the  room  restlessly,  his  hands 
behind  him,  his  head  sunk  thoughtfully  on  his  breast. 

Neither  of  them  spoke  for  a  long  time,  and  then  Mrs. 
Walbridge  broke  the  silence. 

"Sir  John,"  she  began  abruptly,  "I  do  hope  you  are 
not  going  to  want  to  take  Grisel  back  with  you  to  South 
America  next  week?" 

He  turned.     "So  Paul  has  told  you  ?" 

"Yes.     I  hope  you  don't  mind." 


HAPPY  HOUSE  277 


"Not  at  all.     That  is  why  I  told  him." 

"He  thought — he  thought  you  might  be  asking  her 
to  marry  you  at  once — while  you  were  on  the  veranda 
I  mean." 

He  shook  his  head.  "No,  I  didn't  mention  it  to  her." 
Then  he  went  on  very  deliberately,  looking  her  straight 
in  the  face,  "Mrs.  Walbridge,  I  do  not  wish  to  marry 
your  daughter." 

As  soon  as  she  had  grasped  that  she  really  had  heard 
the  words,  she  sprang  to  her  feet,  years  younger  in  her 
anger. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  cried. 

He  smiled  sadly.  "Don't  be  angry,  I  have  the  greatest 
possible  esteem  and  admiration  for  Grisel." 

"But  you  do  not  wish  to  marry  her?" 

"No!  I  do  not." 

In  those  few  short  days  of  long  ago  he  had  never  seen 
Violet  Elaine  angry,  and  since  he  had  found  her  again 
she  had  seemed  so  timid,  so  flattened  by  life,  that  he  had 
been  unable  to  conceive  of  her  in  any  mood  but  that  of 
her  daily  one  of  gentle  unobtrusive  hopelessness;  and 
now,  as  she  blazed  at  him,  standing  there  with  clenched 
hands  and  shortened  breath,  he  suddenly  felt  twenty 
years  younger,  as  if  all  sorts  of  recent  things  had  been 
only  a  dream,  and  that  this — this  only,  was  real. 

He  looked  at  her  with  such  plain-to-be-seen  satisfac- 
tion and  admiration,  that  she  was  startled  and  drew 
back,  losing  her  bearings,  and  then  he  spoke. 

"You  and  I,"  he  said,  "are  too  old  to  do  anything 
but  speak  plainly  to  each  other;  affectations  and  pretty 
little  pretences  are  part  of  the  pageant  of  youth;  we 
have  no  right  to  them.  So  I  will  be  quite  short  in  tell- 
ing you  what  I  have  to  say.  Grisel  is  a  delightful  girl 


278  HAPPY  HOUSE 


as  well  as  a  most  beautiful  one,  but  I  made  a  mistake 
in  asking  her  to  marry  me.  I  do  not  wish  to  marry  her ; 
I  do  not  love  her." 

Again  her  righteous  anger  blazed  up  to  his  curious 
gratification  and  delight,  but  he  went  on  doggedly. 

"I  have  been  trying  this  afternoon  to  make  her  break 
off  the  engagement,  but  I  have  failed,  so  I  shall  have 
to  do  it  myself." 

"But  it  is  outrageous,  abominable!  You  have  no 
right  to  treat  my  daughter  so." 

"I  have  no  right,"  he  said,  "to  treat  any  woman  in 
the  world  with  less  than  entire  honesty,  and  least  of  all 
your  daughter." 

Something  in  his  voice  penetrated  through  her  anger 
into  her  mind  and  mitigated  her  glance  a  little  as  she 
answered : 

"What  do  you  mean  ?    Why  least  of  all  my  daughter  ?" 

There  was  a  little  pause,  then  his  simple  words  fell 
very  quietly  on  the  silence.  "Because,"  he  said,  "for  over 
thirty  years  I  have  loved  you." 

She  could  not  answer  for  a  moment  so  deep  was  her 
amazement,  and  then,  as  so  often  is  the  case,  she  could 
only  repeat  his  words. 

"Loved  me!" 

"Yes,  you.  I  have  never  married,  never  in  my  life 
used  the  word  love  to  any  woman  until  I  met  Grisel, 
and  that  was  because  you  were  always  there  in  my 
memory,  and  there  was  no  room  for  anyone  else." 

"But  I  did  not  even  remember  you!" 

"No!  And  you  have  no  idea,"  he  added,  smiling 
sadly,  "how  after  thirty  years  those  words  of  yours — 
'that  you  did  not  remember  me' — hurt  me.  Well,  there 


HAPPY  HOUSE  279 


you  are.  Such  as  I  am  I  have  been  absolutely  faithful 
to  my  boyish  love  for  you." 

So  many  different  feelings  were  struggling  in  her  mind 
that  her  face  was  tremulous  with  varied  fleeting  expres- 
sions. Her  beautiful  deep  eyes  were  wet,  and  her  lips 
looked  fuller  and  red;  more  like  the  lips  of  a  girl  than 
they  had  done  for  years. 

"When  I  met  her  at  Torquay,"  he  went  on,  looking 
away  from  her  with  delicacy,  "I  had  no  idea  she  was 
your  daughter.  I  had  never  even  heard  your  married 
name,  but  something  in  her,  particularly  a  trick  she  has 
with  her  hands,  and  then  the  shape  of  her  ears,  always 
recalled  you,  and  I  encouraged  myself,  deliberately  en- 
couraged myself,  to  fall  in  love  with  her.  I  very  nearly 
succeeded  too,"  he  added  smiling.  "Who  could  not? 
Such  a  charming  child." 

There  was  a  little  pause.  It  had  begun  to  rain  again 
and  the  soft  pattering  sound  on  the  windows  filled  the 
air. 

"Then  I  came  here  and  saw  you.  You,  as  the  years 
had  made  you — as  the  years  of  Ferdinand  Walbridge 
had  made  you,"  he  added,  with  sudden  firmness. 

She  looked  up  still  with  the  odd  air  of  youth  in  her 
face.  "Poor  Ferdie,"  she  murmured,  "he  never  meant 
it,  you  know." 

"They  never  do,"  he  answered  dryly.  "The  very 
worst  husbands  are  those  who  did  not  mean  it." 

"Well,  then,"  he  went  on,  after  a  moment,  "I  had  a 
good  deal  of  thinking,  one  way  and  another,  and  it 
struck  me  that  if  I  could  make  her  happy  it  would  make 
you  happy  as  well.  And  I  tried." 

"Oh,  you  have,  you  have;  you  have  been  so  good." 


280  HAPPY  HOUSE 


she  interrupted,  clasping  her  hands.  "It's  only  that  she 
is  not  very  well." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Surely  you  must  see," 
he  asked  slowly,  "what  is  the  matter  with  her?" 

"Then  there  is  something  the  matter  with  her?" 

"Of  course  there  is.  Why,  look  at  her,"  he  rejoined 
roughly.  "She  nearly  fainted  under  your  very  noses 
out  of  sheer  misery  to-night,  and  not  one  of  you  saw  the 
reason." 

She  stared  at  him,  her  lips  moving  faintly,  and  at  last 
she  said: 

"What  was  the  reason?" 

"Wick,  young  Wick.  She  is  madly  in  love  with  him, 
and  he  is  worth  it." 

A  worldlier  woman  or  a  less  wise  one  might  have 
suspected  that  Barclay  was  using  young  Wick  as  a  means 
to  help  him  out  of  an  irksome  engagement,  but  Mrs. 
Walbridge  knew. 

"So  I  was  right,"  she  murmured  thoughtfully.  "I 
had  begun  to  think  I  was  wrong."  Then  she  started, 
clenching  the  arms  of  her  chair  hard. 

"Oh,  dear,"  she  cried,  "what  about  Miss  Perkins?" 

He  laughed.  "That's  the  question;  what  about  Miss 
Perkins?  There  is  something  about  her;  some  mystery, 
I  mean.  But  never  mind  that  now.  The  point  is  this. 
Grisel  has  practically  refused  to  break  off  her  engage- 
ment with  me,  so  I  shall  just  have  to  screw  up  my  cour- 
age and  break  mine  with  her.  A  nasty  job." 

"You  must  not  mention  Oliver  to  her.  It  would  not 
be  fair,  because  of  Miss  Perkins." 

He  looked  at  her  curiously.  "You  don't  mean  to  say 
that  you  still  think  that  Wick  cares  a  button  about  Dor- 
othy Perkins  or  anyone  else  except  Grisel?" 


HAPPY  HOUSE  281 


"But  if  he  doesn't — oh,  how  dreadful  it  all  is — why 
is  he  engaged  to  her?" 

"That  I  don't  know.  I  shall  know  by  this  time  to- 
morrow." He  looked  at  his  watch.  "It  is  only  eleven 
now.  I  wonder,"  he  went  on  slowly,  "if  I  could  get  him 
on  the  telephone?  May  as  well  get  it  over  at  once." 

She  told  him  the  number,  and  acting  on  certain  in- 
structions of  his  went  to  Grisel's  room  while  he  was 
telephoning.  The  girl  was  sitting  by  the  window  still 
dressed,  but  with  her  hair  plaited  in  a  long  tail  down 
her  back,  which  gave  her  an  odd  effect  of  being  a  child 
dressed  in  some  one  else's  clothes.  "My  head  was  so 
bad,"  she  explained.  "I  have  been  brushing  my  hair." 

"Good,  I  am  glad  you  have  not  gone  to  bed,  darling, 
for  John  is  still  here  and  wants  to  see  you  in  a  little 
while." 

"Oh,  mother,  it's  so  late." 

Mrs.  Walbridge  kissed  her  smooth,  black,  old-fash* 
ioned,  silky  hair.  "I  know,  dear,  but  he  has  had  an  im' 
portant  telegram,  and  wishes  to  speak  to  you  about  it 
Oh,  look,  it  has  stopped  raining,  and  the  moon  is  com' 
ing  out !" 

She  stood  for  a  while  looking  out  into  the  delicate 
gleams  of  the  rain-soaked  garden,  and  then  said  gently: 

"Grisel,  darling,  have  you  seen  Miss  Perkins  yet?" 

"No,  but  he — he  showed  me  the  ring  he  has  got  for 
her." 

"Yes,  I  saw  it,  too.  I  think  that  the  girl  who  marries 
Oliver,"  the  mother  went  on,  pitifully  conscious  of  the 
futility  of  searching  for  the  most  painless  words,  "will 
be  very,  very  happy." 

Grisel  nodded  without  speaking. 

"You  see,  in  Paris,  and  travelling  with  him,  I — I  have 


282  HAPPY  HOUSE 


got  to  know  him  so  well.  He — he  is  a  splendid  fellow, 
Grisel,  under  all  his  nonsense." 

"I  know,  mother,"  the  girl's  voice  was  very  low,  and 
very  gentle. 

After  a  moment  Mrs.  Walbridge  went  on,  going  to 
the  back  of  her  daughter's  chair,  and  stroking  her  little 
head  with  smooth,  regular  movements. 

"Sometimes  I  have  wished,  dear,  that  you — that  you 
could  have  cared  for  him." 

"I !"  The  girl  broke  away  from  her  gentle  hand  and 
faced  her.  "What  if  I  had  cared  for  him?  Thank  God 
I  didn't;  but  what  if  I  had?  A  splendid  kind  of  love 
that  was  to  trust — would  have  been — I  mean.  Why  it 
was  only  a  week  after — after  that  time  in  the  drawing- 
room  when  he  looked  so  awful — not  a  week  after  that, 
that  he  was  engaged  to  this  beast  of  a  Perkins  girl.  I — 
I  hate  him,"  she  cried,  suddenly  breaking  down  with  an 
unreserved  voice  that  at  once  frightened  and  relieved 
her  mother. 

Kneeling  by  the  window  she  cried,  cried  as  her  mother 
knew  she  had  not  done  for  years,  her  little  shoulders 
shaking,  her  forehead  on  the  window  sill. 

"Hush,  dear,  you  must  not  cry.  Better  wash  your 
face  and  sniff  some  camphor.  Remember  John  will  be 
wanting  to  see  you  in  a  few  minutes." 

Violet  Walbridge  had  forced  herself  to  speak  coldly 
and  in  a  voice  devoid  of  sympathy,  and  the  effect  of  this 
manoeuvre  showed  in  the  girl's  rising  almost  at  once  and 
darting  into  the  bathroom.  Her  mother  heard  the 
roaring  of  the  cold  water  and  stood  for  a  moment  listen- 
ing. Then,  without  a  word,  she  went  back  to  Barclay. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

"HAVE  you  any  idea  why  I  asked  you  to  come  back, 
Wick?" 

Oliver  Wick,  who  had  been  told  to  sit  down  opposite 
Sir  John,  looked  up  at  him  for  a  long  minute.  The 
young  man's  face  was  white,  and  seemed  suddenly  to 
have  grown  thin,  but  in  his  still  excitement  his  eyes  were 
oddly  lucent.  At  last  he  answered: 

"Well,  sir,"  he  said,  his  voice  so  tense  that  while  it 
did  not  tremble  it  vibrated  a  little.  "I  do  not  know 
exactly  why,  but  I  think  I  know  what  it's  about." 

"Good.    Then  we  need  not  waste  any  time." 

The  clock  struck  as  he  spoke,  and  Barclay,  who  was 
smoking  a  cigar,  waited  until  the  silence  was  undisturbed 
before  saying  quietly,  "It's  about  Griselda  Walbridge." 

Wick  murmured,  "I  thought  as  much." 

"I  want,"  Barclay  went  on,  watching  the  young  face 
very  closely,  "your  help  in  a  matter  of  great  importance 
both  to  Grisel  and  to  me." 

"I'd  do  a  great  deal  for  you,  sir.  I'd  do  anything  in 
the  world — for — Griselda." 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  that.  Well,  what  steps 
would  you  advise  me  to  take  in  order  to — to  break  off 
my  engagement  to  Griselda?" 

The  hot  red  leaped  to  Wick's  face,  and  he  started 
violently,  but  he  did  not  speak  for  a  time;  his  surprise 
was  unblemished  by  his  having  had  any  suspicion  that 
the  interview  was  going  to  take  this  turn,  and  for  a 

283 


284  HAPPY  HOUSE 


moment  he  was  incapable  of  sane  speech.  When  he 
could  find  his  voice  it  was  to  exclaim  blandly,  "Why 
do  you  ask  me?" 

"Because,"  the  older  man  answered  in  a  perfectly 
even  voice,  "I  know  that  she  loves  you." 

Wick  rose.     "Oh,  you  know  that!" 

"I  do,  and  because  of  this  I  have  suggested  to  her 
that  perhaps,  when  she  did  me  the  honour  of  accepting 
me,  she^-she  made  a  mistake." 

A  sudden  grin,  as  disconcerting  as  it  was  irresistible, 
appeared  on  the  young  man's  face,  and  they  both  waited 
for  it  to  disappear  much  as  they  might  have  waited  for 
the  withdrawal  of  an  intruding  stranger. 

"Oh,  no,  she  didn't  make  any  mistake,"  Wick  broke 
out  when  he  could  again  control  his  facial  muscles.  "She 
knew  perfectly  well  when  she  accepted  you;  knew — that 
— well,  sir" — he  proceeded  boldly,  yet  with  a  very  charm- 
ing deference — "that  she  loved  me." 

"Surely  she  never  told  you  this?"  Barclay's  voice  was 
stern. 

"Oh,  bless  my  soul,  no  never;  in  fact,"  the  grin  again 
quivered  on  his  lips  for  a  second,  "she  did  some  pretty 
tall  lying  about  it,  poor  little  minx." 

"I  see.  Then,  to  be  brief,  you  have  known  all  along 
that  I  was  bound  to  be  disappointed?" 

"Yes,  sir."  Wick's  brightly  shining,  smiling  eyes  met 
his  fairly  and  squarely.  "You  see,  she  meant  to  marry 
you  and  did  her  best,  but — well,  I  knew  she  would  break 
down  in  the  end." 

"Neither  of  you  seem,"  the  elder  man  said,  but  with 
a  hint  of  dryness  in  his  voice,  "to  have  considered  my 
feelings  much." 

But  Wick  protested,  "Oh,  yes,  we  did — I  mean  to  say 


HAPPY  HOUSE  285 


/  did.  I  thought  a  lot  about  you  at  one  time  and  an- 
other, sir." 

"And  to  what  conclusions  did  these — reflections — lead 
you?" 

Wick,  who  was  still  standing,  took  out  his  cigarette 
case  and  snapped  it  thoughtfully  several  times. 

"To  this,"  he  returned  at  last,  "that  though  I  was 
really  sorry  for  you,  it  just  could  not  be  helped." 

"I  see,  youth  must  have  its  day." 

"Yes,  or  'every  dog'  is  better.  What  I  mean  is  that 
really,  you  know,  normally,  your  day  for  that  particular 
form  of  happiness  ought  to  have  been,  well — before  we 
— Griselda  and  I,  were  even  born." 

There  was  so  much  odd  gentleness  in  the  way  he 
voiced  his  ruthless  theory  that  Barclay  was  touched. 

"You  are  not  far  out  there,"  he  answered  unemo- 
tionally, "only  my  day  never  did  come.  It  was  a  kind 
of  false  dawn — and  then — ah,  well,  it  is  rather  late,  so 
suppose  we  get  to  business.  As  matters  stand  at  present, 
this  young  lady  happens  to  be  engaged  not  to  you,  but 
to  me,  and  what  is  more,  she — she  has  practically  re- 
fused to  break  the  engagement,  so  it  is  left  to  me.  And 
this,"  he  added  cheerfully,  "is  a  little  hard  on  me,  don't 
you  think?" 

"I  do.    Do  you  want  me  to  do  it  for  you?" 

"No.  I  want  to  hear  your  ideas  about  the  matter. 
For  example,  what  would  you  suggest  as  a  good  first 
step?" 

Wick  thought  for  a  moment.  "I  don't  quite  see  the 
first  step,  but  the  end  is  perfectly  clear." 

"Yes?" 

"She  must  propose  to  me."    The  young  man's  voice 


286  HAPPY  HOUSE 


was  full  of  confidence,  and  he  appeared  to  be  uncon- 
scious of  the  absurdity  of  his  suggestion." 

"Grisel — Grisel  to  propose  to  you?    Nonsense,  Wick !" 

"But  she  must.  Look  here,  Sir  John."  Wick,  who 
had  sat  down,  leaned  forward,  his  elbows  on  his  knees, 
and  spoke  very  earnestly. 

"You  know  nothing  about  me,  sir,  so,  if  you  don't 
mind,  I'd  better  tell  you  a. little.  You  see,  they — the 
Walbridges — think  that  I  am  still  the  little  Fleet  Street 
reporter  I  was  when  they  first  knew  me,  but — I  am  not. 
For  several  months" — he  talked  on,  explaining  his  posi- 
tion with  a  modest  pride  that  pleased  his  hearer. 

"So  I  am  actually  speaking  to  the  editor  of  a  London 
newspaper!"  Sir  John  at  last  smiled  kindly. 

"Yes.  Sparks  is  a  rotten  paper,  but  his  making  me 
editor  of  it  is  only  a  trick  of  the  chief's  to  find  out  what 
I  am  made  of,  so  I  don't  mind.  He's  a  sly  old  devil, 
long  sighted  and  crafty,  and  he  has,  so  to  speak,  laid  me 
wide  open  and  is  now  poking  about  in  my  in'ards  to 
find  out  all  about  me."  He  laughed.  "Lord,  how  the  old 
man  is  sweating,  trying  to  tire  me  out,  and  I  get  fresher 
and  fresher !  Oh,  yes,"  he  went  on  after  another  chuckle, 
"I  am  his  latest  YOUNG  MAN  and  I  have  got  better  works 
than  most  of  them  and  I  am  bound  to  succeed  all  right. 
So  that's  that."  His  mouth  set,  and  he  was  silent  for 
a  moment,  plainly  looking  into  the  future.  "And  by 
the  time  I  am  your  age,  Sir  John,"  he  said  slowly,  "I 
shall  be  what  Fleet  Street  calls  a  'Great  Man.'  I  shall 
also  be  a  multi-millionaire.  Miss  Minx  will  never 
starve." 

"Yes,  but  you  forget  that  she  is  still  engaged  to  me." 

Wick's  eyes  lost  their  far-off  look. 

"So  she  is,"  he  admitted,   "so  she  is.     Guess  I  am 


HAPPY  HOUSE  287 


going  on  a  bit  too  fast.  However,"  he  went  on  with  an 
air  of  conclusiveness,  "she  can't  very  well  marry  you 
if  you  don't  want  her,  and  you  don't.  So  let's  get  on." 
He  had  rumpled  his  fine  mouse-coloured  hair,  which 
stood  up  ludicrously,  and  he  now  tried  to  smooth  it 
down,  which  made  it  more  absurd  than  before. 

Sir  John  watched  him  with  a  smile.  "Well,  now  that 
we  understand  each  other,"  the  older  man  began,  "sup- 
pose you  tell  me  something  else.  I  think  I  am  not  wrong 
in  assuming  that  you — love  Griselda?" 

He  had  been  half  afraid  to  put  the  question,  not  that 
he  doubted  the  gist  of  the  reply,  but  that  he  shrank 
from  a  possible  awkwardness  or  unbeautiful  expression 
of  it.  He  had  been  wrong. 

Pick  dropped  his  hands  and  turned  to  him  his  sym- 
metrical face  excited  and  bold  looking,  his  eyes  bloom- 
ing with  youth  and  love. 

"Yes,"  he  said  with  dignity,  "I  do.    And -" 

"You  believe  that  her  love  for  you  is  big  enough  to 
bring  her  to  the  point  of — of — well — foregoing  the 
thing  for  whose  sake  she  accepted  me?" 

"Of  course  I  do,  but — you  can  see  for  yourself  that 
she  has  not  been  happy.  I  have  made  it  just  as  hard 
for  her  as  I  possibly  could,  too.  I  have  not  told  her 
about  Sparks,  or  the  chief's  taking  a  shine  to  me,  or  my 
rise  in  salary,  I — I  wanted  her  to  have  a  bad  time,  I — 
I  wanted  the  little  wretch  to  feel  what  she  was  going  to 
give  up  in  giving  up  you,  and  all  your  things,  just  for 
me.  For  the  penniless,  obscure  kid  I  was  at  first." 

"And  you  think  that  she  will  do  this  now?" 

"Yes,  poor  little  thing,  oh,  yes,  she  will !"  He  mused 
for  a  moment  and  then  his  face  sharpened  again  and  he 
added  testily,  "But  I  won't  ask  her  to." 


288  HAPPY  HOUSE 


"You  mean  that  she  must  ask  you?"  Barclay  spoke 
more  gently.  "Well,  when  she  has  asked  you  to  marry 
her — what  are  you  going  to  do  about  poor  Miss  Per- 
kins?" 

Wick  literally  bounced  to  his  feet,  as  if  the  name  had 
been  a  bomb  dropped  into  the  room. 

"Oh,  Miss  Perkins — Miss  Perkins,"  he  repeated  al- 
most idiotically. 

"Yes.  This  is  bound  to  be  something  of  a  blew  to 
her."  Barclay's  face  was  very  grave,  but  there  was  a 
slight  quiver  in  his  voice. 

Oliver  Wick  had,  just  then,  no  ear  for  slight  quivers. 

"I — oh,  she'll  be  all  right,"  he  murmured  feebly. 

"You  mean  that  she  won't  mind?" 

"Oh,  no,  she  won't  mind.  She's  a  remarkably  sensible 

girl "  then  he  burst  into  a  roar  of  laughter.  "Look 

here,  Sir  John,"  he  gasped,  "it's  no  good,  I  have  a  hor- 
rible confession  to  make  to  you.  I  shall  have  to  murder 
Miss  Perkins!"  Again  he  shouted  with  childish,  almost 
painfully  loud  laughter,  and  Sir  John  laughed  with  him. 

At  last  Sir  John  wiped  his  eyes.  "I  take  it  you  will 
be  able  to  kill  the  lady  without  much  bloodshed?"  he 

asked.     "I — I  have  been  suspecting  as  much." 
***** 

The  moon  was  flooding  the  rain  bejewelled  garden 
with  light  as  Griselda  Walbridge  came  down  the  steps. 
She  walked  slowly,  as  if  her  little  feet  were  heavy,  and 
her  smooth  dark  head  was  bent.  At  the  foot  of  the  steps 
she  stopped  and  looked  around,  "John,"  she  called  softly, 
"John,  are  you  there?" 

No  one  answered,  and  she  shrank  back  against  the 
rose-festooned  handrail.  The  moonlight  was  very  bright, 
but  the  shadows  were  black  and  solid-looking,  and  it 


HAPPY  HOUSE  289 


was  later,  too,  than  she  had  ever  been  alone  in  the  gar- 
den. 

In  the  silence  she  turned  and  looked  up  the  steps  to 
the  open  house  door.  Her  mother  had  told  her  that 
Barclay  was  waiting  for  her  in  the  garden  and  now 
where  was  he,  she  wondered.  In  the  clear  light  her 
small  face,  a  little  hard  in  reality,  looked  unusually  child- 
like and  spiritual.  She  stared  up  at  the  sky,  and  across 
the  garden,  and  then,  thinking  that  Barclay  for  some 
reason  had  not  waited  for  her  after  all,  walked  slowly 
along  across  the  tennis  lawn. 

She  was  dressed  in  true  sapphire  blue,  the  best  colour 
of  all  for  moonlight,  and  presently  she  stopped  by  a 
rose  tree  and  pulled  a  deep  red  rose,  her  big  ruby  glow- 
ing as  she  tugged  at  the  tough  stem  and  then,  embold- 
ened and  soothed  by  the  perfect  quiet,  she  went  slowly 
on,  holding  the  rose  against  her  cheek. 

Near  the  old  bench  where  her  mother  and  Oliver  had 
sat  on  Hermione's  wedding  day,  she  started  back  fright- 
ened and  then  gave  a  nervous  little  laugh. 

"Oh,  here  you  are,"  she  cried. 

The  owner  of  the  cigarette  came  out  of  the  shadow, 
and  again  she  cried  out,  this  time  in  a  very  different 
voice,  "Oh,  it  is  you." 

"Yes,  it  is  me,"  Wick  answered  britannically.  "Oh, 
Grisel,  Grisel,  do  look  at  that  moon " 

He  drew  her  hand  through  his  arm  and  thus  old- 
fashionedly  linked  they  stood  in  silence  for  a  moment. 

Then  she  said,  "Where  is — Sir  John?  Mother  said 
he  was  here  waiting  for  me." 

Wick  stared  at  the  moon  a  moment  longer  and  then 
said  quietly: 

"Grisel,  I  love  you!" 


290  HAPPY  HOUSE 

"Oliver,  you  are  crazy!" 

"No,  sit  down  on  the  bench." 

"Thanks,  I'd  rather  not,  I  must  go  in •" 

"Sit  down " 

"No,  thanks." 

"Grisel,  sit  down." 

"No." 

"Grisel,  sit  down!" 

Grisel  sat  down,  and  he  sat  beside  her. 

"Did  you  hear  what  I  said  a  minute  ago?"  he  went 
on  quietly. 

"Not  being  deaf,  I  did.  What  they  call  lunal  madness, 
I  suppose."  Her  voice  shook,  but  her  tone  was  one  of 
awful  hauteur. 

"Lunar,  no  such  word  as  lunal.     Grisel,  I  love  you." 

"Really,"  she  protested,  "I  must  go  in." 

"Grisel,  I " 

"I,"  she  broke  out  furiously,  "you  say  that  again  and  I 
shall— yell." 

"Yell  then,  it  will  do  you  good.  Yell  like  hell.  And 
you  love  me." 

She  sprang  to  her  feet.  "I  don't.  What  an  abomi-r 
nable  thing  to  say.  How — how -" 

"How  dare  I?  Easy.  Almost  as  easy  as  looking  at 
you,  my  pretty.  Grisel,  we  love  each  other." 

She  burst  into  nervous,  shrill  laughter,  and  then  sud- 
denly stopped. 

"I  cannot  help  laughing,  you  are  such  an  idiot,"  she 
said,  "but  I  am  very  angry.  Have  you  forgotten  that 
I  am — engaged  to  John " 

"John  be  damned." 

Helpless  tears  crowded  into  her  eyes  and  her  throat 
swelled  suddenly.  "How  hateful  you  are." 


HAPPY  HOUSE  291 


"I  am  not  hateful,  darling.    I  am  your  true  love." 

"Oh,  Oliver,"  she  cried  in  despair,  her  feelings  so 
varied,  and  so  entangled,  that  she  could  not  straighten 
them  out.  "What  about  Dorothy  Perkins?" 

"Dorothy  Perkins  is  a  flower." 

"A— a  what?" 

"A  flower.    I  mean  to  say,  she  is  a  creeper." 

"Oliver,"  she  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm  and  peered 
anxiously  into  his  face.  "What  is  the  matter  with  you? 
Aren't  you  well?" 

"Yes,  dear,  I  am  well,  but  she  is  a  creeper."  He 
stretched  out  his  arm  and  pointed,  "There  she  is  on  the 
steps."  Then  he  saw  that  she  was  really  alarmed  for 
his  sanity. 

"Grisel,  darling,  that  rose,  that  rose  climbing  on  the 
steps,  is  the  only  Dorothy  Perkins  I  know." 

"But " 

"No,  it  is  true.     I — I  made  her  up,  my  little  darling." 

"How  could  you  make  her  up?"  she  wailed.  "You 
could  not  make  up  a  girl !" 

"But  she  isn't  a  girl,  sweetheart.  I  invented  her,  to 
make  you  jealous." 

Suddenly  Grisel  broke  down  and  their  great  moment 
was  upon  them.  When  she  had  cried  herself  into  ex- 
hausted quiet  in  his  arms  he  wiped  her  eyes  on  his  hand- 
kerchief. 

"Oh,  I — I  have  hated  her  so,  Oliver.  But — whose  was 
the  photograph  then?" 

He  explained. 

"But  Jenny  talked  about  her,  and  even  your  mother." 

"Of  course,  that's  what  mothers  are  for." 

Suddenly  she  sat  up  and  smoothed  her  hair.  "Oh, 
dear  me,  what — what  will  poor  John  say?" 


292  HAPPY  HOUSE 


Wick  stiffened.  Now  came  the  test.  "What  do  you 
mean?"  he  asked. 

"Why,  when  I  tell  him.     Poor  John!" 

He  stuffed  the  damp  handkerchief  back  into  his  pocket, 
and  lit  a  cigarette. 

"When  you  tell  him  what?" 

"Why,  about  us." 

Wick  very  deliberately  puffed  at  his  cigarette.  "I 
don't  think  I  would  mention  it,"  he  said. 

"Oliver,  what  do  you  mean?" 

He  rose,  and  walked  up  and  down  in  front  of  her. 

"I  mean  that  because  I  just  lost  my  head  and  made  a 
fool  of  myself  there  is  no  reason  that  that  splendid  old 
fellow  should  be — worried." 

"Worried!"  she  almost  screamed.  "I  don't  under- 
stand you." 

"Well,  I  mean,  my  dear,  that  because — I  behaved  like 
a  cad  and — and  kissed  a  girl  who  is  going  to  marry  an- 
other man — a  man  a  thousand  times  my  superior  in  every 
way — there  is  no  reason  for  his  being  troubled  by  know- 
ing about  it.  I  am  ashamed  of  myself,  and  I  beg  your 
pardon,  and  I  am  sure  you  will  forgive  me." 

The  pallor  made  her  in  the  moonlight  look  almost 
unearthly,  and  he  was  obliged  to  bend  his  eyes  resolutely 
away  from  her,  during  the  pause  that  ensued. 

"Then  you — then  you  meant  nothing  by  it?"  she  stam- 
mered. 

"No.  At  least — oh,  well — of  course  you  know  that  I 
love  you,  but  I  quite  agree  with  you  that  to  marry  a 
penniless  young  beggar  like  me  would  be  madness " 

She  was  so  amazed,  so  honestly  horrified  by  his  cynical 
cold-bloodedness  that  for  a  moment  she  could  not  speak. 

"How — how  can  I  marry  him  after  that?"  she  gasped. 


HAPPY  HOUSE  293 


"Oh,  quite  easily,  dear.  You  forgive  me,  and  I  will 
forgive  you  and  we  will  both  blame — the  moon,"  he 
waved  his  hand,  "and  the  roses,"  and  then  she  broke 
down. 

"I  can't,  I  can't,"  she  wailed,  "you  know  I  can't.  Oh, 
Oliver,  if  you  love  me  you  must  marry  me." 

Wick,  though  deeply  stirred,  held  his  ground. 

"I  don't  see  any  must/'  he  said  morosely,  and  at  last 
his  triumph  came. 

"But  you  will,  won't  you?"  she  cried.  "Oh,  Oliver, 
you  will  marry  me?" 


At  about  this  time  Mrs.  Walbridge  and  Sir  John 
Barclay  sat  together  in  the  girls'  room.  Mrs.  Wai- 
bridge's  eyes,  strangely  youthful-looking,  fixed  thought- 
fully on  her  companion.  They  had  had  a  long  talk,  and 
now,  at  the  end  of  it,  she  put  a  question  to  him. 

"But  you,"  she  said  gently,  "are  you  sure  you  will 
not  be  unhappy,  John?" 

And  he  said,  his  grave  face  full  of  serenity,  "Yes.  I 
have  always  known  that  I  was  too  old  for  her,  you  know, 
Violet — I  suppose  I  may  call  you  Violet  now?" 

In  the  moonlight  her  little  blush  gave  her  face  a  mar- 
vellous look  of  girlishness,  and  his  eyes  shone  as  he 
looked  at  her. 

"Your — your  divorce  case  is  on  for  Wednesday,  isn't 
it,"  he  asked  after  a  little  pause. 

"Yes.  I  suppose  they  will  be  married  in  six  months 
time?  Oh,  John,  I  hope  so — poor  Ferdie,  he — he  doesn't 
bear  trouble  very  well.  I  do  hope  it  will  be  all  right." 

They  talked  on,  and  he  told  her  that  he  should  not 


294  HAPPY  HOUSE 


stay  long  in  South  America,  that  in  November  he  would 
come  back  to  London  for  good. 

"Oh,  I  am  so  glad,"  she  answered.  "I  am  very  glad. 
For  I  shall  be  a  little  lonely  later  on.  Griselda  will  go 
very  soon,  and  Paul  really  cares  for  little  Jenny,  and  I 
hope — of  course  I  shall  have  Guy  for  a  while — I  must 
tell  you  about  Guy,  John — the  war  has — taught  him  such 
a  lot.  He  is  changed  enormously.  Do  you  know,  he 
and  I  are  better  friends  than  I  have  ever  been  with  any 
of  the  others?  I  am  so  thankful — but  still,  he  is  young, 
and  of  course  will  be  full  of  his  own  interests,  and  I 
shall  be  glad  to  have  you  near— one  of  my  own  age — 
but  will  you  like  living  always  in  London?" 

Barclay  nodded.  "Yes,  I  shall  always  live  in  London. 
Somewhere  not  too  far  from — here." 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

IT  was  one  o'clock  when  Mrs.  Walbridge  at  last  found 
herself  alone.  She  was  very  tired,  but  so  happy  and 
excited  that  she  did  not  want  to  go  to  bed,  and  after 
walking  restlessly  about  the  girls'  room,  and  the  draw- 
ing-room, living  over  again  the  happenings  of  the  last 
few  crowded  hours,  she  went  softly  up  two  flights  of 
stairs  and  opened  the  door  of  her  little  study. 

It  was  many  weeks  since  she  had  sat  there  at  the  old 
table,  and  the  moonlight  revealed  a  thick  layer  of  dust 
over  the  inky  blotting-paper  and  the  cheap,  china  ink- 
stand. Noiselessly  she  opened  the  window  and  stood 
looking  out  at  the  night.  She  had  always  loved  the 
quiet,  dark  hours  and  the  mystery  and  purity  of  night 
had  all  her  life  made  a  strong  appeal  to  her  imagination. 
The  millions  of  people  who  lay  helpless  and  innocent  in 
sleep;  the  rest  from  scheming  and  struggle;  the  renewal 
of  strength;  and  the  ebbing  towards  dawn  of  enfeebled 
life.  The  very  fact  that  some  of  the  great  thorough- 
fares of  London  were  being  washed — laved  she  mentally 
called  it — and  purified  from  their  accumulation  of  ugly 
unhygienic  filth;  all  these  things  made  night  a  time  of 
beauty  and  romance  to  this  writer  of  sentimental  rub- 
bish. It  seemed,  she  had  always  thought,  to  make  the 
sin-defiled  old  world  young  and  innocent  again  for  a  few 
hours,  and  this  night  was  to  be  an  unforgettable  one 
to  her. 

Guy  had  come  back  finer,  and  with  greater  promises 

295 


296  HAPPY  HOUSE 


of  nobility  than  ever  before.  Grisel  had  finally  come — 
been  dragged — to  her  senses,  and  would  worthily  fulfil 
her  womanhood  with  Oliver,  whom  Mrs.  Walbridge  told 
herself  she  loved  nearly  as  much  as  she  loved  her  own 
sons.  In  reality  she  loved  the  young  journalist  far  more 
than  even  Guy,  but  this  she  did  not,  and  never  was,  to 
know. 

She  went  on  counting  her  blessings.  Maud's  baby 
was  lovely,  and  strong,  and  patients  were  really  begin- 
ning, if  not  exactly  to  flock  at  least,  to  come  in  decent 
numbers  to  Moreton  Twiss.  Hermione  was  enjoying 
what  to  her  mother  seemed  an  almost  unparalleled  social 
success,  among  people  innocently  believed  by  Mrs.  Wai- 
bridge  to  be  of  very  high  society  indeed;  little  Jenny 
Wick  seemed  to  like  Paul,  and  if  she  married  him  he 
seemed  to  stand  a  very  good  chance  of  improving  in 
every  way,  of  becoming  kinder  and  less  selfish. 

Thus,  standing  in  the  moonlight,  Mrs.  Walbridge 
thankfully  reviewed  the  many  good  things  in  her  life. 

"To  be  sure,"  she  thought,  her  face  clouding,  "it  was 
very  sad  about  Ferdie,  it  was  a  dreadful,  almost  tragic 
thing  that  their  old  life,  however  trying  and  disappoint- 
ing it  had  been  to  her,  should  have  been  broken  in  this 
way.  Like  many  other  women  she  felt  that,  though  her 
husband  was  a  bad  one  he  was,  because  he  had  been  the 
lover  of  her  youth  and  was  the  father  of  her  children, 
a  thing  of  odd  pathos  and  even  value  to  her.  He  was 
like,"  she  thought,  "a  bit  of  china — a  bowl  or  a  jug — 
bought  by  her  in  her  youth,  and  though  she  had  been 
deceived  in  thinking  it  genuine  and  though  it  was 
cracked  all  over,  she  yet  preferred  to  keep  it  than  to 
lose  it." 

Carrying  on  the  simile,  the  divorce  case  seemed  to  her 


HAPPY  HOUSE  297 


like  a  public  sale,  in  which  all  the  blemishes  and  cracks 
of  her  poor  jug  would  be  exposed  to  indifferent  ob- 
servers. 

All  this  she  felt  very  sharply,  but  at  the  same  time 
there  was  an  immense  relief  that  never  again  would 
Ferdie  live  under  the  same  roof  with  her,  that  she  would 
never  again  have  to  listen  to  his  boasting,  to  hear  his 
plausible,  usually  agreeable  lies,  to  endure  his  peevish 
reproaches  when  things  went  wrong.  Never  again,  she 
told  herself  with  an  odd  little  smile,  need  she  have  fried 
liver  for  breakfast.  Ferdie  cherished  for  fried  liver  a 
quite  impossible  ideal  of  tenderness  and  juiciness,  and 
every  Sunday  morning  for  a  quarter  of  a  century  she 
had  come  downstairs  praying  that  the  liver  might  be 
all  right  this  time.  And  it  never  was  all  right.  No,  she 
would  never  have  fried  liver  on  her  table  again. 

Then  she  thought  about  Paris.  Paris,  once  Guy  was 
out  of  danger,  had  been  wonderful  in  its  freedom  from 
household  cares,  its  lack  of  responsibility  to  anyone.  At 
first  she  had  hardly  been  able  to  believe  that  no  one 
would  ask  her  where  she  was  going,  and  instantly  sug- 
gest her  not  going  there,  but  somewhere  else.  And  then 
Cannes!  One  of  her  favourite  literary  devices  had  al- 
ways been  to  send  the  heroines  to  the  Sunny  South. 

She  had  written  lavishly  of  the  tropical  heat,  the  in- 
credible blueness  of  the  quiet  sea,  of  the  wealth  of  flow- 
ers in  that  vague  bepalaced  land,  but  the  reality  (although 
the  sea  was  not  quite  so  blue  as  she  had  expected  it  to 
be)  overwhelmed  her.  The  best  of  all  had  been  the 
gentle,  balmy  laziness  that  gradually  wrapped  her  round 
and  enveloped  her,  the  laziness  that  even  an  occasionally 
sharp,  dusty  wind  could  not  dispel. 

Best  of  all  she  had  had  no  duties.     Not  one.     And 


298  HAPPY  HOUSE 


she  had  sat  on  her  balcony  in  a  comfortable  cane  rock- 
ing-chair, by  the  hour.  "I  just  sat,  and  sat,  and  sat," 
she  thought,  leaning  against  the  window  sill.  "How 
beautiful  it  was."  And,  now  that  her  regret  about  her 
cracked  jug  had  been  softened  by  time,  and  mitigated 
by  the  variety  of  new  joys  that  had  come  to  her,  she 
could  henceforth,  in  a  more  decorous  British  way,  go 
on  sitting. 

Paul  would,  of  course,  continue  to  bully  her  and  to 
nag,  but  if,  as  she  hoped,  little  Jenny  cared  enough  about 
him  to  marry  him,  he  would  turn  his  bullying  and  nag- 
ging attentions,  in  a  very  modified  way,  to  her.  It  was, 
Mrs.  Walbridge  reflected  innocently,  right  that  a  man 
should  give  up  tormenting  his  mother  once  he  had  a 
wife  of  his  own.  And  little  red-headed  Jenny  could,  she 
thought  with  a  smile,  look  after  herself. 

As  for  Mrs.  Crichell — once  she,  too,  was  Mrs.  Ferdie, 
she  would  no  doubt  look  after  herself.  It  was  a  rather 
startling  thought,  that  of  two  Mrs.  Ferdies!  "I  suppose 
I  shall  be  Mrs.  Violet?" 

The  clock  on  the  stairs  struck  again,  and  Mrs.  Violet 
started.  "Good  gracious,"  she  murmured  aloud,  "how 
dreadfully  late  it  is." 

She  looked  round  the  little  room  once  more,  recalling 
the  hundreds  of  hours  she  had  sat  there  grilling  in  sum- 
mer ;  freezing  in  winter,  working  on  her  books,  and  then 
with  a  queer  little  smile  she  went  downstairs.  She  told 
herself  resolutely  as  she  went  that  this  was  perfectly 
ridiculous;  that  she  must  go  to  bed  but  she  didn't  want 
to  go  to  bed,  and,  moreover,  she  suddenly  realised  that 
she  was  hungry. 

In  her  excitement  she  had  eaten  very  little  dinner, 
and  after  locking  the  front  door  she  ran  down  into  the 


HAPPY  HOUSE  299 


kitchen.  After  a  hurried  examination  of  the  larder, 
and  experiencing  a  new  and  what  she  felt  to  be  un-Brit- 
ish  distaste  for  cold  mutton,  she  decided  to  scramble 
some  eggs.  Lighting  the  gas-ring,  she  broke  three  eggs 
into  a  yellow  bowl,  and  began  to  beat  them  briskly  with 
a  silver  fork. 

The  kitchen  was  a  pleasant  place,  newly  painted  and 
whitewashed,  and  a  row  of  highly  flourishing  pink  and 
white  geraniums  garnished  the  long  low  window.  Really, 
a  very  nice  kitchen,  its  mistress  mused  happily. 

When  she  had  whipped  the  eggs  enough,  she  set  the 
table,  spreading  a  lace  teacloth  on  one  end  of  it,  and 
reaching  down  a  plate  and  a  cup  and  saucer  from  the 
rack.  She  was  smiling  now,  for  there  was  to  her  gentle 
spirit  of  adventure  something  rather  romantic  in  this 
solitary,  very  late  meal. 

"I  do  not  know,"  she  said  as  she  set  the  saucepan 
on  the  ring  and  dropped  a  big  bit  of  butter  into  it, 
"whether  it  is  supper  or  breakfast." 

Then  a  sudden  idea  came  to  her.  She  set  the  sauce- 
pan on  the  table  and  flew  to  the  larder,  whence,  after  a 
hurried  search,  she  brought  back  two  large  fine  tomatoes. 
She  had  always  been  extremely  fond  of  scrambled  eggs 
with  tomatoes,  but  Ferdie  loathed  tomatoes,  and  Paul 
had  inherited  his  distaste  for  them,  so  she  had  long 
since  renounced  this  innocent  gluttony.  Now  Ferdie  had 
gone,  and  Paul  was  asleep,  and  there  was  nothing  on 
earth  to  prevent  her  having  "Spanish  eggs,"  as  she  called 
them.  She  turned  the  savoury  mess,  very  much  peppered 
and  salted,  out  on  to  two  slices  of  buttered  toast,  and 
sat  down  with  the  teapot  at  hand,  to  enjoy  herself. 

"I  will — I  will  tell  John  about  this,"  she  reflected 
gaily.  "He'll  laugh." 


300  HAPPY  HOUSE 


She  had  been  so  busy  up  to  this,  since  he  had  told 
her,  that  she  had  hardly  had  time  to  think  about  it, 
but  now,  as  she  ate,  she  went  back  over  their  talk  to- 
gether. It  seemed  to  her  very  wonderful  that  such  a 
man  should  have  cared  for  her,  and  her  mind  was  full  of 
pathetic  gratitude  to  him  for  what  she  did  not  at  all 
realise  he  must  often  have  regarded  as  a  perfect  nuisance. 

Here  she  had  been,  she  thought,  struggling  along  at 
"Happy  House"  with  Ferdie  and  the  children,  losing 
her  youth,  and  her  hopes,  and  her  looks,  and  there — 
somewhere — anywhere — had  been  that  fine,  handsome, 
successful  man,  loving  her!  It  was  most  wonderful. 
"I  hope,  though,"  her  thoughts  went  on  as  she  began 
on  her  delicious  hot  eggs,  "that  he  didn't  mean  anything 
by  what  he  said  about  the  divorce — and  his  always  living 
somewhere  near — us." 

She  had  written  nearly  two  dozen  very  sentimental 
novels,  and  was  an  adept  at  happy  endings,  but  she 
blushed  in  her  solitude  at  the  thought  that  Barclay  might 
possibly  be  contemplating  for  her  and  him  anything  so 
indecorous  as  in  their  case  it  would  be,  as  such  a  happy 
ending. 

"Oh,  no,  I  am  sure  he  didn't — but  how  wonderful 
it  would  be  to  have  him  for  a  friend.  For  the  boys  too, 
with  his  fine  character  and  his  cleverness."  Oh,  yes,  she 
was  going  to  be  very  proud  of  him,  and  the  fragrance 
of  the  old  romance  would  always  hang  over  their  friend- 
ship. And  then  suddenly  she  blushed  hotly,  and  laid 
down  her  fork. 

"Violet  Walbridge,"  she  said  severely,  precisely  as  she 
would  have  made  one  of  her  own  heroines  in  like  case 
apostrophise  herself,  "you  are  not  being  honest.  You 
know  that  he  did  mean  something.  You  know  that  he 


HAPPY  HOUSE  301 


will — not  now,  of  course,  but  after  a  long,  long  time — 
ask  you — to  be  his  wife."  Feeling  very  wicked,  and 
very  shy,  she  faced  the  question  for  a  moment,  and  then 
took  a  long  drink  of  tea — a  long  draught  of  tea  her 
heroine  would  have  called  it — "but  if  he  does,"  she  de- 
cided,  her  eyes  full  of  tears,  "it  won't  be  for  ages,  and 
I  need  not  decide  now.  I  can  tell  him  when  the  time 

comes  that — that "  as  she  reached  this  point  her  eyes 

happened  to  fall  on  a  pot  of  white  paint  that  was  stand- 
ing on  a  shelf  in  the  corner.  Cook,  she  supposed,  had 
been  painting  something  in  the  scullery  and  the  pot  had 
been  forgotten.  Her  face  changed. 

It  was  very  odd.  She  had  been  meaning  for  years 
to  have  the  words  "Happy  House"  renewed  on  the  gate, 
but  the  irony  of  the  name  had  somehow  forced  her  into 
putting  it  off,  and  for  a  long  time  now  she  had  been 
dating  her  letters  just  88,  Walpole  Road,  and  not  using 
the  name  at  all ;  the  romantic,  foolish  name,  it  had  come 
to  look  to  her  now.  She  rose  with  a  smile,  and  reached 
down  the  pot,  and  stood  stirring  the  thick  paint  with 
the  brush. 

"Now,"  she  thought,  "it  really  is  'Happy  House' — 
or  it's  going  to  be" — and  she  would  have  the  words 
there  again. 

Refreshed  by  the  tea  and  food,  she  felt  less  than  ever 
inclined  for  bed  and,  laughing  aloud  at  her  own  folly, 
she  decided  that  she  would  paint  the  words  on  the  gate 
herself. 

The  moon  was  still  shining,  yet  it  was  too  early  for 
any  prying  eye  to  see  her,  and  it  would,  she  thought, 
with  that  novelist's  imagination  of  hers — the  thing  with- 
out which  not  even  the  worst  novel  could  possibly  be 


302  HAPPY  HOUSE 


written — be  a  romantic  and  splendid  ending  to  the  most 
wonderful  day  in  her  life. 

Opening  the  area  door  softly  she  crept  up  the  steps 
with  the  pot  and  brush  in  her  hand,  and  went  down  the 
flagged  path.  The  moon  was  paling  and  the  shadows 
lay  less  distinctly  on  the  quiet  road,  but  the  general 
gloom  seemed  greater.  Not  a  soul  was  in  sight;  not 
a  sound  broke  the  sleepy  stillness;  not  a  light  shone  in 
any  window.  Opening  the  gate,  and  closing  it  again 
to  steady  it,  Mrs.  Walbridge,  forgetting  her  beautiful 
frock,  knelt  down  on  the  pavement  and  set  to  work. 
The  poor  old  words,  last  renewed,  she  remembered  the 
day  Paul  came  of  age,  when  Ferdie  had  given  one  of 
his  characteristic  parties,  were  nearly  obliterated. 

Very  carefully  the  thankful  little  woman  worked,  her 
heart  singing.  Darling  Grisel,  how  happy  she  had 
looked  when  she  left  her  lying  in  bed,  the  big  ruby  gone 
from  her  ringer,  and  the  little  old  emerald  bought  in 
Paris  for  Miss  Perkins,  in  its  place.  It  was  really  won- 
derful how  well  everything  was  turning  out!  Paul  and 
Jenny  had  certainly  advanced  a  good  deal  in  their  friend- 
ship during  her  absence,  Jenny  must  marry  him,  oh 
dear,  and  Mrs.  Crichell  must  marry  Ferdie,  too.  John, 
dear,  wise  romantic  John  thought  she  would,  and,  after 
all,  she  thought,  as  her  brush  worked,  poor  Ferdie  had 
lots  of  good  qualities  really,  and  she,  Violet,  had  always 
been  too  dull,  too  staid  for  him. 

"Clara  Crichell  liked  entertaining,  and  really  has  great 
talents  as  a  hostess  and  I  always  was  dreadful  at  par- 
ties." She  dipped  the  brush  in  again  and  began  on  the 
"y."  "He  is  one  of  those  people  for  whom  success  is 
really  good,"  she  went  on ;  "who  knows  but  that  he  may 


HAPPY  HOUSE  303 


turn  out  very  well  as  the  husband  of  a  rich  woman,  poor 
Ferdie " 

"Violet!"  She  started  and  ruined  the  "H"  in 
"House."  Poor  Ferdie  stood  before  her. 

"Ferdie,  is  it  you?'  she  cried  stupidly,  still  kneeling. 

"Yes,  of  course  it  is  me,"  he  snapped  crossly.  "What 
on  earth  are  you  doing  out  here  in  the  middle  of  the 
night?" 

Scrambling  to  her  feet  she  answered  anxiously,  "I — 
I  am  just  painting.  But  why  are  you  here?" 

"Let's  go  into  the  house  and  I  will  tell  you,"  he  said. 
"I  have  come  home,  Violet!" 


Half  an  hour  later  Ferdinand  Walbridge  sat  in  the 
kitchen  of  "Happy  House,"  drinking  tea  and  eating 
scrambled  eggs — without  tomatoes.  He  had  on  a  velvet 
jacket  of  Paul's,  for  he  was  cold,  and  the  glass  out  of 
which  he  had  drunk  a  stiff  brandy  and  soda  still  stood 
on  the  table.  Beside  him  sat  his  wife,  her  face  full  of 
troubled  sympathy. 

"Enough  salt?"  she  asked  presently. 

He  nodded.  "The  food  at  the  Rosewarne  is  beastly, 
it  has  played  the  very  deuce  with  my  digestion " 

"Did  you  have  hot  water  every  morning?" 

"No,  it  was  luke  warm  half  the  time  and  made  me 
feel  sick." 

He  went  on  eating  in  silence,  and  she  studied  his  face. 
That  he  should  look  ill,  and  unhappy,  did  not,  after 
what  he  had  told  her,  surprise  her  much ;  what  did  strike 
her  was  his  look  of  age.  She  had  often  seen  him  when 
he  was  ill,  but  this  was  the  first  time  that  his  face  not 
only  showed  his  real  age,  but  looked  actually  older. 


304  HAPPY  HOUSE 


The  lines  in  it  seemed  deeper,  and  his  eyes,  under  heavy 
suddenly  wrinkled  lids,  lustreless  and  watery.  He  had 
cried  a  good  deal  of  course,  she  reflected  pitifully,  but 
never  before  had  his  easy  tears  made  his  eyes  look  like 
that. 

"I  do  think,"  he  murmured  resentfully,  "that  you 
might  have  remembered  that  I  like  China  tea." 

"I  did  remember,  Ferdie,  but  there  is  not  any  in  the 
house.  You  know  all  the  rest  of  us  prefer  Ceylon." 

He  grunted  and  went  on  eating.  "Poor  china  jug," 
she  thought,  "his  cracks  were  very  apparent  now." 

"Oh,  Ferdie,"  she  broke  out,  "I  am  really  awfully 
sorry  for  you." 

He  looked  up,  his  haggard  face  a  little  softened. 

"Yes,  I  believe  you  really  are,  Violet,  and  I  can  tell 
you  one  thing,  Clara  wouldn't  be  if  she  was  in  your 
shoes." 

She  didn't  answer,  for  she  really  did  not  know  what 
to  say  about  Clara — Clara,  who  had  behaved  so  cruelly 
to  poor  Ferdie. 

"She  is  a  woman,"  he  burst  out,  "with  no  heart,  abso- 
lutely none." 

"Perhaps  she — perhaps  she  is  sorry  for  Mr.  Crichell," 
she  suggested  timidly. 

He  laughed.  "Sorry?  Not  she.  I  tell  you  it  is  the 
legacy  that  has  done  it.  The  legacy.  She  always  could 
twist  Crichell  around  her  little  finger,  and  the  very  min- 
ute she  heard  the  news,  off  she  went  to  him  and  made 
up.  You  mark  my  words,  the  greater  part  of  that  legacy 
will  be  hanging  round  her  neck  before  very  long." 

"But,  Ferdie,  she  can't  be  as  bad  as  that.  No  woman 
could.  People  often  make  mistakes,  you  know,  and  she 


HAPPY  HOUSE  305 


may  have  found  that — that — after  all,  her  heart  was 
really  his." 

He  rose  and  stared  at  her  rudely.  "Like  one  of  the 
awful  women  in  your  novels!  I  tell  you,  it  was  the 
legacy  that  did  it.  Perfectly  revolting,  because,  after 
all,"  he  added  with  an  odious,  fatuous  laugh,  "all  other 
things  being  equal,  it's  me  she  loves.  Why,  I  never 
saw  a  woman "  he  broke  off,  seeming  to  realise  sud- 
denly the  bad  taste  of  his  attitude.  "But  that's  not  the 
point,"  he  went  on,  nervously — "the  point  is  this ' 

She  drew  a  long  breath  and  clenched  her  hands  in  her 
lap  to  fortify  herself  for  the  coming  scene.  Nothing, 
she  knew,  not  even  the  real  suffering  he  had  been 
through,  could  induce  Ferdie  to  forego  a  dramatic  scene. 

"Hum,"  he  cleared  his  throat  violently  and  Mrs.  Wai- 
bridge,  instinctively  true  to  her  wifely  duty,  answered: 

"Yes,  Ferdinand?" 

"Well,"  he  made  a  little  gesture  with  his  handsome 
hand,  which  struck  her  as  being  not  quite  so  clean  as 
usual.  "I  have  done  wrong,  and — I  beg  your  pardon." 
His  voice  was  sonorous  and  most  musical,  and  as  he 
finished  speaking  he  dropped  his  head  on  his  breast  in 
a  kind  of  splendid  compromise  between  the  attitude  of 
shame  and  a  court  bow. 

"I — I  forgive  you,  Ferdie,  of  course,  I  forgive  you," 
but  she  knew  that  he  had  not  yet  got  his  money's  worth 
out  of  the  situation. 

"Violet,"  he  began  again — and  then  as  if  for  the  first 
time,  he  looked  at  her,  not  as  a  refuge,  or  a  feather-bed,  or 

a  soothing  draught,  but  as  a  woman.  "Why,  what " 

he  stammered,  staring,  "what  have  you  been  doing  with 
yourself?  You  look — different  somehow.  You  look 


306  HAPPY  HOUSE 


years  younger,  and — and  where  did  you  get  that  gown?" 
To  her  dismay  he  ended  on  a  sharp  note  of  suspicion. 

"I  bought  it  in  Paris,"  she  answered  quietly. 

"Bought  it?  Why,  it  is  worth  twenty  guineas,  if 
it's  worth  a  penny!  Violet,  I — I  hope  you  have  not 
been — forgetting  that  you  are  my  wife,  while  I  have 
been  away?" 

She  nearly  laughed,  he  was  so  ridiculous,  but  her  deep 
eyes  filled  with  tears  over  the  pathos  of  it. 

"Listen,  Ferdie,"  she  said  gently,  "you  need  not  worry 
about  me.  I  am  an  old  woman  now  and  I  have  always 
been  a  good  woman.  I  bought  this  dress,  and  several 
others,  in  Paris,  with  money  that  I  got  as  a  prize  for  a 
book." 

He  stared  at  her  stupidly  with  his  blood-shot  eyes. 

"Yes,  a  book  you  have  probably  read.  It's  called 
'Bess  Knighthood.'  " 

"You — you  didn't  write  'Bess  Knighthood !'  " 

"Yes,  I  did.  After  'Lord  Effingham'  was  such  a  fail- 
ure, I  just — just  sat  down  and  wrote  'Bess  Knighthood.' 
I  don't  know  how  I  did  it — it  went  so  fast  I  could  hardly 
remember  it,  when  it  was  done."  A  wan  smile  stirred 
her  lips,  which  seemed  to  have  lost  their  recent  fullness 
and  looked  flat  and  faded,  "but  I  got  the  prize." 

"Oh."  He  looked  annoyed,  and  she  realised  at  once 
that  he  felt  injured,  for  it  had  always  given  him  a  pleas- 
ant feeling  of  superiority  to  laugh  at  her  looks,  and  now 
he  could  laugh  no  more. 

"Yes,"  she  resumed,  drawing  herself  up  a  little  in  her 
pride,  "and  I  have  not  spent  very  much — I  have  got 
nearly  five  hundred  pounds  left,  so  if  you  need  some, 
Ferdie " 

The  early  day  was  by  now  coming  in  over  the  gera- 


HAPPY  HOUSE  307 


niums,  and  in  its  wan  light,  each  of  them  thought  how 
ruinous  the  other  looked. 

Walbridge  gazed  at  his  wife.  "You  are  fagged  out," 
he  said  pompously.  "It  is  very  late,  I  think  we  had 
better  go  upstairs,"  and  without  a  word  she  followed 
him  up  into  the  hall. 

"One  of  your  old  pyjama  suits  is  in  the  dressing-room 
chest-of -drawers,"  she  said,  as  he  went  on  up  the  front 
stairs,  leaning  heavily  on  the  handrail.  "I — I  have  one 
or  two  things  to  do,  Ferdie." 

He  turned,  looking  down,  dominating  her  even  now 
in  her  miserable  triumph. 

"All  right,"  he  said,  "I — I  will  sleep  in  the  dressing- 
room.  Don't  be  long,  Violet,"  and  Ferdinand  Wai- 
bridge  went  to  bed. 


Mrs.  Walbridge  took  up  the  pet  of  paint  and  the 
sprawling  brush  from  where  they  were  lying  on  the 
pavement  and  looked  at  the  words  on  the  gate.  "Happy" 
stood  out  neatly,  but  the  "H"  in  "House"  was  oblit- 
erated by  a  great  splash,  and  the  remaining  letters,  un- 
touched by  the  fresh  paint,  looked  by  contrast  more 
faded  and  faint  than  ever. 

"Dear  me,"  she  thought,  "what  a  mess."  And  then, 
because  she  was  a  tidy  woman,  as  well  as  to  avoid  ques- 
tions and  conjectures,  she  rubbed  off  the  smear  of  paint 
as  well  as  she  could  with  one  of  the  new  Paris  hand- 
kerchiefs, and  resumed  her  interrupted  task. 

In  a  few  moments  her  work  was  done,  and  the  words 
she  had  chosen  for  the  new  house  thirty  years  ago 
showed  out  once  more  distinctly  on  the  green  gate.  She 
rose  to  her  knees,  too  tired  for  thought,  sensible  only  of 


308  HAPPY  HOUSE 


a  violent  longing  for  sleep;  to-morrow,  she  knew,  she 
must  think.  She  must  think  about  the  turn  things  were 
taking;  about  the  coming  back  of  her  husband,  and  the 
resumption  of  the  old  daily  routine;  of  Ferdie's  fretful- 
ness,  of  liver  for  breakfast,  and,  most  of  all,  she  must 
think  about  Sir  John  Barclay. 

"Poor  John,"  she  thought,  giving  a  last  look  at  the 
words  on  the  gate,  "and  poor  Ferdie.  Oh,  how  tired  I 
am "  and  she  went  into  the  house  and  shut  the  door. 


THE  END 


,NAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A    000  051  448     9      _ 


